


Homecoming

by maggiemerc



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Femslash, HP: Epilogue Non-Compliant, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiemerc/pseuds/maggiemerc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione's back in England after fifteen years abroad. Harry's hunting for a new dark wizard. Ron's anticipating the arrival of a baby. Ginny is looking for love in new and diverse places. It's a HP/HG tale with much love for those Weasely kids, because they're not bad people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trans-Atlantic Flights Are Never Pleasant

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a slow burn and these characters have loads of baggage and things so don’t come here looking for instant satisfaction. Also someone is totes gaymo and will be getting some homosexual loving on, but this is a H/Hr foremost so DO NOT FRET Hermione and Harry fans.

She rather liked the idea of being an expatriate. There was something almost noble sounding about it. Calling herself an expatriate she could count herself amongst great people like Ernest Hemingway and Ezra Pound. They’d been America’s “Lost Generation” a group of people who came of age at a point when the world was at it’s most chaotic and transformative.

She never wanted to play down the immense importance of that time, but she felt she could relate. She’d grown up in an age where it simply wasn’t safe to being a good intentioned witch. The government, the dark wizards, they’d all conspired to hunt her down. She’s been attacked, mauled, and tortured.

Like any good expat the horror of it all, being a survivor of such an enormous war, it had weighed on her.

That’s why her idyllic looking relationship with Ron had crumbled. After it was all over they were warriors without a war, soldiers without a general. Seven years of their life (that seventh being the worst) they had lived more intensely then any child should have. Every pain and every triumph had seemed magnified.

Some strived afterwards. But Hermione and Ron just couldn’t. It had all been too much.

Their relationship ended in a decidedly un-Ron and Hermione way. There was no shouting and no arguing, just that horrific realization that they could never work long term.

That last night they’d wallowed in each other’s embrace, desperate for a last grasp at normalcy. Then he’d gotten up and gone to work and Hermione packed up her few belongings and headed west.

America. For the wizarding world it was still a great frontier. There were no well established schools like Hogwarts. No hidden towns like Hogsmeade. The witches and wizards of America were spread all across the country. Some went to America’s foremost school of Magic, the Salem Institute, but many opted for the method of magic learning popularized by the Africans. Apprenticeship.

The lack of unity made it easy for Hermione to disappear. In Europe she was a war hero. People recognized her on the street. Unauthorized books about her cluttered the shelves of stores. But the war had left few marks on America. She was just another snotty Brit.

And a bookworm like Hermione loved it.

She had a go at furthering her education. Then found a job importing and exporting magical goods. It was lucrative and interesting and made use of her considerable talents with numbers, runes and general magic knowledge.

She met a man, American and as Muggle as her parents. He didn’t care about the world she’d left in England. Didn’t care about the war that had left her scarred. He held her close at night and watched her lovingly in the morning and things were perfect.

They had two kids. Hugo was named for her dad and shared the bushy hair of all good Grangers. Rose had her dad’s blond locks. She was destined to be a beauty, something that seemed to constantly amaze Hermione—much to her husband’s chagrin.

Hermione loved it in America. She liked that people automatically assumed she was smart because she had an accent, and she liked how people always marveled at her perfectly straight teeth. Her parents liked it too. Friends always laughed when they found out both her parents were dentist. The Grangers would just gleam, and then freely advise people on proper flossing techniques.

They flew out once or twice a year. After that year in Australia it had taken a bit of time to get the practice back up and running, and the money had been tight, but they could afford the trips to see their grandchildren. No one ever discussed going to England. Something about seeing that cold and foggy land put a chill in Hermione’s bones.

That’s why she was constantly amazed at where she was. On a plane. Back to England. Revoking that expatriate status she’d worked so hard to earn. All because her dear husband hadn’t seen a red light and gotten himself killed.

It had been three months. Three months of empty stares and heavy sobs. Three months of angry and confused children. Rose was older—thirteen and she’d displayed a remarkable bitterness towards her mother. Some great witch, couldn’t even save her husband from a car accident. Hugo, only nine, wasn’t as angry, but was terribly confused

Hermione had been surprised to find how suffocating America could turn. Those vast fields and high mountain ranges didn’t matter in the end. Only the loneliness, the desperate need to runaway…again.

So she’d packed up the children and contacted her parents and Professor McGonnagall. The flight to England was emotional agony. Rose refused to talk to her, content to listen to music too loudly. Hermione allowed it. The girl would transfer to Hogwarts in a few weeks, and her beloved gadgets would become useless.

Hugo sat curled up in his seat against the window his video game tightly grasped in his small hands. He was still too young for Hogwarts. It’d be another year of Muggle school.

Hermione tried to focus on her work but found it quite difficult. Her boss had been a little too delighted when Hermione had suggested a move to England. He saw it as a perfect opportunity to expand the business to one of the foremost magical society’s on the planet. The next few British Air flights would be loaded with other employees sent to help set it all up. 

Hermione would be hard-pressed to admit it but she was happy to see a few of her favorite employees making the move. Sarah Ratters was especially welcomed. The woman was a perfect assistant for Hermione, clever and quiet when needed, but prone to Weasely like outbursts when pressed. A pleasant personality to have along.

Hermione tried to make another go at the paperwork on her lap. Their plane would be landing within the hour and she really needed to have some of her work sorted, but the tinny noise from her daughter’s headphones and the clack of frantically pressed buttons on her son’s video game were desperately trying to drive her mad.

The flight could not have landed fast enough. Hermione had to resist apparating straight out of the plane as soon as the wheels touched down. But abandoning her children to surly customs agents simply wasn’t proper. It felt like another hour before they were through customs and baggage claim and on the sidewalk outside.

It was a bit chilly, perfectly natural for October, and the sky was the dull grey Hermione had grown accustomed to in childhood. Her children both shivered in their thin shirts and Hermione tried not to smile. The two had insisted on ignoring all of her dressing advice and worn exactly what they pleased. The draft running along the road seemed to have then regretting that choice, but both kids were too stubborn to say anything.

“You see Gram yet?” Hugo asked. His teeth weren’t _quite_ chattering. 

Hermione stood up a little taller and looked for her mother’s little Volkswagen. She’d purchased it a few years before and had bombarded Hermione’s email with photos of the car. Her parents were thrifty enough to make a new car rather exciting.

Sure enough the little gray car was coming around the bend a little too sharply for comfort. Hermione didn’t need to turn to know that both her children were watching the fast approaching car with wide eyes. That’s how Doctor Harriet Granger did things though. She drove too fast and braked too suddenly. It was why Hermione’s husband had always paled when she’d offered to drive. The woman _adored_ driving.

The car was in park and the bushy haired woman out the driver’s seat before Hugo and Rose could respond. Soon they were wrapped up in a tight hug. Hermione watched her mother’s easy affection towards the surly children, and just, for a small moment, felt like it would be okay.


	2. Owls and Cellphones

Harry desperately wanted to make a very Muggle reference at that moment, but his fellow aurors tended to tease him about his more obscure Muggle references. None were worse then his partner, Ron Weasely. For a fellow who’s dad was _obsessed_ with Muggles it was a bit silly.

So Harry didn’t say “I felt a disturbance in the Force.”

And really most of the Aurors would have thought he was referring to some obscure bit of magic rather then a very famous series of films.

Instead Harry had a good shudder and tried to figure out why it felt like someone was walking across his grave.

Across the pair of desks Ron had his head in paperwork. Harry didn’t want to disturb him. Getting Ron to use a quill and parchment was like pulling water from a rock. On the rare occasions it occurred with little effort on his part, Harry just let Ron go.

He was probably rushing through his work to get home to his Muggle wife. Another reason it didn’t make sense for the man to tease Harry. The guy had a DVD player! The only Muggle bits lying about Harry’s house were a few books, a telephone and the car he used to cart Lily to elementary school. Ron’s wife, the doctor, didn’t care what sort of magic Ron could do. He kept a cellphone on him at all times, and had to even learn to use e-mail on the thing.

But in good wizard fashion he was still just a step above Luddite. Harry usually had to check his e-mail for him, and it was he,not the bloke with the device, that had to work out the charms to make the phone work in the Ministry.

Ron had stopped his scribbling now and was eyeing the phone. Its standby light winked at him and Ron scowled, seeming to take personal offense at the phone’s perfectly normal function. “She was supposed to call by now.”

Harry tried to pretend like he hadn’t been day dreaming and purposely stared at the paperwork on his own desk. “She’ll call,” he said, still refusing to look up. If he looked up Ron would want to talk. He always wanted to talk when his wife was out of town. Serves him right for marrying a well to do doctor who seemed to travel all of the bleeding country.

“Aye, but she said she’d call by noon. It’s practically one!”

It was in fact only fifteen after twelve. Harry had no intention of correcting Ron.

“It’s my turn to pick dinner. We’re going to this new place in Diagon Alley. Ethiopian food. Maggie actually made some joke about ‘what food’ when I told her about it. But it’s got all sorts of good looking stuff. And the breads supposed to be way better then all that Muggle nan stuff.”

Harry thought about telling Ron that Ethiopia wasn’t exclusively a nation of wizards, but he seemed so excited about his new restaurant. Harry also tried to ignore Maggie’s joke. Like her husband the good doctor tended towards making jokes that really weren’t appropriate outside of a close group of friends. It’s one of the reasons they worked so well together. They could go to a party full of acquaintances and clear the place in less the a hour. Ginny suspected that Maggie had to have a bit of magic to do that.

“You got Lily tonight?” Ron was trying to ignore his very quiet phone. 

“Aye. The Harpies have got a match tonight.” Harry’s ex-wife was a starting Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. He tried to go to games as often as he could, but their youngest, Lily, had school the next day, so Harry was stuck seeing her to bed. 

“That’s right. Ginny keeps trying to get me to come see that new pitch, but it doesn’t feel right, you know? Watching my sister play for a team that isn’t the Cannons.”

“You’ve had a few years to get used to it.”

Ron groaned dramatically and Harry was reminded of his ex. “I’ll never get used to it. My little sister is a traitor Harry. _Generations_ of Weasleys have supported the Cannons. And she goes off with the Harpy Hoes?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You know Ginny will hex your bollocks to Hogsmeade if she hears you calling them that?”

“I’d like to see her try. Chaser for the Harpy Harlots vs famous war hero Auror. Who’ll win?”

“Ginny.”

Ron immediately deflated. It was probably true. It had been more then fifteen years since school, but Ginny Weasley still threw a terrifying Bat Bogey Hex.

A barnyard owl flew into the room, just barely skirting the ceiling of the office. As it flapped over them a rolled bit of parchment fell from it’s talons onto Harry’s desk. Ron stood a little in his seat to get a better look at the letter.

“Love letter Harry?”

Judging by the official looking seal probably not. The wax dissolved with a touch of Harry’s wand and he unfurled the parchment. Hastily scrawled ink spread across the page and Harry squinted to understand it. Curious, Ron came around their desks to read over Harry’s shoulder.

“Our new informant owls again,” Ron declared.

“Nice if this bloke was a little less cryptic. Claiming he can blow the lid off one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in England and he can’t even bother to give us names?”

Ron took the parchment from Harry to better read it. “Some of the blokes in the office think this is all some grand scheme to lure us out.”

“Cryptic letters aren’t very productive then are they? I mean a few insults about your mum are more likely to bring us out.”

Ron rolled the parchment up and placed it in a file with the other notes from their “informant.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but that’ll probably bring me mum out too.”

Harry chewed on his lip and stared at the file. It was getting fatter every day, but the words within the thing seemed to grow more cryptic.

“Think we should try acting on some of what this guy’s saying?”

Ron shrugged, “It couldn’t hurt. You me and a few baby Aurors would be enough for that part of Knockturn.”

“What about Maggie?”

“Dinner with Maggie then sitting around under an Invisibility Cloak with you. Who could ask for a better evening?”

“The cryptic meeting where all will be revealed is tomorrow night Ron.”

“Oh right, even better! Dinner and sex with Maggie tonight, Invisibility Cloak with you tomorrow. And this way you don’t have to leave Lily with Mum.”

Even better indeed. Mrs. Weasely would gladly watch any of her grandchildren without a second thought—except for the ones produced by her only daughter. A divorce in the family turned her a bit…judgmental. Every time both Harry and Ginny were busy it seemed like a week of reproachful looks and rude comments about their skills as parents.

The wrath of Molly Weasley was a very good reason for Ginny and Harry to stay friendly after the divorce.


	3. Settling In

The Granger home hadn’t changed too much since school. Hermione’s room was practically untouched a time capsule to her third or fourth year at Hogwarts. The room Hugo and Rose would be sharing for the next two weeks had spent Hermione’s childhood as a halfway house for her parents’ unfinished projects. Half an afghan and a Christmas stocking for her mother, a series of half painted tin figures for her dad. But anticipating their daughter’s return her parents had cleared out the old and given the room a fresh coat of paint. The new furniture was another matter. The dresser and mattresses all still wrapped up in plastic.

“What?” Hugo had come up behind Hermione and was gaping at the room. “Where am I supposed to sleep?”

“Floor looks cozy enough.” Rose dropped her bag unto the hardwood and peered into the room over her mom’s shoulder.

It did need a bit of work, and it had been more then twenty four hours since Hermione had even touched her wand. She quickly tied her long curly brown hair up into a pony tail and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. She then promptly held her hand out expectantly. Her wand quickly flew from it’s place in her purse downstairs into her open hand. “You two go see if your grandparents need help with lunch. I’ll see what I can do about this.”

The pair bounded down the stairs with more exuberance then she’d seen in months. Normally Hermione would have had the two sort the room out the Muggle way, but between the actual task and their propensity for bickering it would be well after dinner before the two finished.

Instead a flick of Hermione’s wrist set the room into action. The windows opened and a draft carried the wet paint smell out. The plastic around the furniture fell away and the pieces floated off the ground and into their appropriate place. Ten minutes later when Hugo bounded up the stairs to get Hermione for lunch the room was done.

#

“Okay, _why_ can’t I just apprentice with you?”

The dinner table was quiet and all eyes were on Hermione. She leveled her best “mom” gaze at her irritated daughter. Lunch and the afternoon had passed amicably enough, but it was now less then two weeks before Rose was to start at Hogwarts and Hermione had finally screwed up the strength to tell her daughter that.

She sighed and set her fork down amongst the very delicious mashed potatoes and peas. “Because witches don’t apprentice in the UK. They go to Hogwarts.”

“A boarding school? Mom what century do you think this is?”

“The twenty first. It’s a good school.”

“Full of uppity wizards. If I wanted that I’d go to…to Salem!”

“Rose, if you want to use magic in this country you _have_ to go to Hogwarts.”

“And you wonder why I didn’t want to move here? I could be apprenticing with Ms. Jenkins right now! Going to school with people I actually like.”

Less then a year ago Rose had hit that shrill teenager stage. Hermione’s husband had found it amusing that a few sharp words from Rose sent a migraine throbbing through Hermione’s brain. Not for the last time she wished he was here, not just because it would have kept them from moving in with her parents, but because he would have had his daughter seeing the logic to going to Hogwarts. It was one of, if not _the_ best school for witchcraft and wizardry. A brilliant girl like Rose could thrive there. And it was safe. Above all else it was _safe_.

“Rose,” Hermione’s dad said, “Your mother was terrified when she first heard about Hogwarts,” that was an out and out lie and everyone at the table knew it—well except Hermione’s dad. He tended to operate in another world apart from theirs, especially in emotional matters such as these. “But she got there and made friends, and with the exception of that whole war thing she ended up loving it there!”

“Did you really fight in the war with Voldemort,” Hugo asked.

Her parents looked at her curiously. Her mother wondered, “Is it very well known in America Hugo?”

He nodded, “Oh sure. All the wizards I know knew about the war. Voldemort was this super evil guy and then some British wizards got together and killed him. Mom doesn’t talk about it.”

“It’s like talking about your age,” she offered. No one had any idea _what_ Hermione was talking about. “Some things, like participating in a great war? They just don’t need to be talked about.”

Under the table her mother suddenly took Hermione’s hand and gripped it tight.

“It wasn’t all bad,” her dad said, returning to his mashed potatoes, “you gram and I got a wonderful trip to Australia!”

“So everyone at Hogwarts would know you?” Hermione looked up sharply. Her daughter sounded like she was getting interested in Hogwarts, though wanting to go to milk her mother’s former fame was a terrible reason.

“A lot of people I used to know teach there, but it’s been years since I’ve spoken with most of them. I doubt they remember the bushy haired girl who was good with charms.”

Rose immediately returned to sulking and started pushing her peas into her potatoes in a way that could only be described as sullen.

“Rose,” Hermione tried to infuse as much warmth into her voice as possible, her daughter refused to look up. “You really will like it there. The professors are all brilliant.”

“Not as brilliant as you mom.”

“Thank you Hugo. Wipe the brown off your nose.” Her son rubbed at his nose and was concerned to find it perfectly clean. “And they really are brilliant. Professor McGonagall’s one of the only Animagi in all of England. And Professor Longbottom travels all over the world studying plants. He’s been published in loads of journals.”

“But it’s like camp Mom. For _years_.”

Hermione smiled, “and not a parent in sight.”

Her daughter was too stubborn to look openly delighted, but it was very clear that the lack of parental supervision immediately sold her. Hermione wasn’t about to tell her about Fitch or the third eye every teacher in the place seemed to have. That was something Rose could learn about all on her own.

#

After dinner Hugo Sr. Insisted on teaching his grandchildren about the very best British programs and had set them down in front of the telly for some BBC costume drama. Hermione loved her father, but had learned as a child that it was better to _not_ watch the dramas with him. He tended to get into even the driest ones and loved to point out any and every historical inaccuracy.

The lesser of two evils was her mother—who was now up to her elbows in soapy water and she scrubbed the pans from dinner.

“I can do that Mom.”

“No thank you dear. I’d prefer to limit to magic in the house to the absolute necessities.”

Hermione resisted an eye roll and picked up took up a towel to dry the sopping pans her mother had placed on the rack.

“I can do that dear.”

“I don’t mind helping Mom.”

“You should be in there with them.”

“Really Mom. I’m fine.”

Her mother’s hand stilled in the soapy mess. “You’re not fine dear.” 

That was the problem with Harriet Granger. She was just as astute as her daughter, and just as emotionally pragmatic. Covetable traits to be sure, but absolutely awful traits to have in a mother. She glanced up from her work. Her mother’s brown eyes were focused so intensely on her she thought the woman was about to have a go at Legilimency.

It was enough to tear a little crack in the armor Hermione had been working hard to build since deciding to come home. “I’m not fine,” she admitted slowly, “But I will be. And right now I want to spend time with my mom. Okay?”

Her mother stared a second longer then returned to her scrubbing, “You understand I worry dear. Everything you’ve been through and you’ve been strong. Impossibly strong. But losing a spouse isn’t like fighting a war. And you’ve got two children who need their mom.”

“I know that mother.” She’d hoped the more formal title would indicate that Harriet should leave it.

Harriet continued, “You’ve been home for only a few hours and already you’re pushing them away. First upstairs, now after dinner. And sending Rose to Hogwarts? Going back to work next week? You say you know, but what I see right now is that woman who hardly looked like my daughter coming to find me in Sydney.

“I’m not running.”

“You’re children disagree.”

“Mom.”

“It’s too soon Hermione. You need to take a breath.”

“I appreciate the concern mom, but my boss has been amazing these last few months. He’s put up with a wreck of an employee. And he’s given me an enormous task here. Something that’ll be good for me, the children, heck for all of England. I can’t shirk my responsibilities any longer.”

“Your children are your responsibility.” She waved a soapy hand towards the living room. “Rose. _You_ could apprentice her.”

“No. I can’t.” Her voice was. “You may not believe it but she needs Hogwarts. She doesn’t need to sit around here being constantly reminded that her father is dead.”

“Mom?”

Both woman turned to find Hugo standing in the doorway. Words really failed to adequately describe the horror and guilt Hermione felt at that moment. Her son had her frizzy hair, but he had his father’s eyes, and they were now wide in hurt and surprise.

“Hugo. We…”

Hugo didn’t wait for an explanation he turn and ran, loudly bounding up the steps and into the room he shared with Rose. Hermione shot her moth a dark look, and to her credit Harriet looked suitably reproached.

Hermione dried her hands and quietly followed her son up the stares, ignoring the curious looks from her father and daughter in the living room.

She didn’t try to talk through the door, just opened it and sat beside Hugo. He’d taken a pillow and was now curled up tightly in a ball wrapped around the pillow and unwilling to budge. She watched him for a while. The quick breaths and the closed eyes and the red on his nose from the tears he refused to let fall.

She stretched out alongside him and pulled him and the pillow close, wrapped her legs and arms around him and laying her cheek against the top of his head. He smelled a bit like the airplane and the awful chicken that had been served on board. But he also smelled like the shampoo he used. The baby kind that didn’t cause tears.

She kissed the top of his head and rocked him slowly. She didn’t hum. Didn’t apologize. She just rested on his twin sized bed and held him close.

After a while Rose came in and went to bed, leaving on the lamp in the hallway as a kind of security blanket. Hermione’s dad would be annoyed at the extra cost to his electricity bill, but Hermione didn’t mind. She held her youngest and slept straight on til morning.


	4. It Isn't Creepy If You Have A Badge

Ron needed some sort of breath mint. Harry didn’t want to say anything as it was in his nature to be polite in matters of hygiene, but being stuck under an invisibility cloak with Ron Weasley was taking its toll on him.

Ron had his face pressed against the cloak. Logically his breath should have pushed through the fabric and moved on to offend some helpless passerby. Sadly, nothing was logical where a Deathly Hallow was concerned. Instead his breath seemed to move along the fabric and straight into Harry’s nose.

It smelled like onions, and butter, and the sour smell of a mouth that always ruined good smells like onions and butter. Harry desperately hoped that Ron’s fragrant meal didn’t move through his system too fast. Ron’s breath and Weasley gas could be the whole operation’s undoing.

“I don’t think this guy’s ever gonna show mate.”

“Ginny’s got Lily tonight so I’ve got plenty of time.”

“Yeah and I’ve got a gorgeous wife who’s so pregnant she’s using a cane right now just sitting at home waiting for me.” Ron reached over and grabbed Harry’s forearm for attention. “Mate, her boobs are enormous.”

“If you want to go home then by all means go home.”

“Don’t be that way. I don’t need long suffering Harry Potter passively aggressively keeping me away from my wife.”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort.”

“You totally are. It’s past two in the morning and there’s still no sign of this bloke. Let’s call it a night and you can go look for some fetching witch in a pub.”

“Ron we’re on a stakeout. We don’t just get to call it off because we’re bored. I’ve got three other Aurors out there watching this place. I won’t have it look like I’m wasting their time.”

“Sir, yes sir.” Ron even did a little salute with it.

Harry glanced through the flimsy fabric and watched the other Aurors. They were all looking decidedly unlike themselves having all taken a bit of Polyjuice and mixing it with the hair of some poor Muggles from the streets of London. Two of them looked to be getting quite inebriated at a sad looking table in the seedy little pub. The third was wrapped up like a homeless bloke and wedged into a crevice between two buildings.

A lithe looking fellow swaddled in a dark cloak walked past the homeless auror. The man’s face was hidden by the voluminous hood of his cloak.

“Look at this guy,” Ron muttered, “Dresses like a Malfoy.”

Harry had to admit it looked that way. It was all very…dramatic. The flashes of silver from the chain of his cloak and the buckle of his belt, the expensive dark leather gloves and boots detailed with the kind of craftsmanship that only the really wealthy would afford. And that cloak, moving all billowy like a cloud around him as he walked. All he needed was a cane and a house elf to be Draco’s distant cousin.

“Ten galleons he’s our guy.”

“No chance I’m taking that bet.”

Sure enough Mr. Dramatic stopped in front of the poor excuse for a pub. He paused. Harry watch the back of the man’s head as he turned to look around him, taking in the homeless man and the drunks. He looked back towards the building he and Ron were pressed against. He felt a little movement along his thigh and realized Ron was fingering the handle of his wand. Harry reached out and grabbed his friend’s wrist.

The dark man seemed to be satisfied and walked into the pub. 

“For a second I thought he was looking right at us,” Ron whispered.

Harry didn’t want to admit it, but he’d felt the same way. “Come on,” he said. Cloak still firmly wrapped around them they followed the man into the pub. The two aurors at the table were getting louder now. Drunkenly singing a drinking song about a well-endowed witch who worked as a milkmaid.

The dark man had moved straight past the barman to take up a heated conversation with another well dressed man. This one was sans cloak, but looked practically as evil. His dark hair was bulled back into a pony tail and his mutton chops were so thick and long they were nearly a beard. His eyes were narrow under a heavy brow and a long nose. But there was one thing keeping him from looking too evil. Sweat beaded at the edge of his widow’s peak and his eyes watched the cloak man with…fear? He nodded repeatedly as the other man spoke to him in urgent tones.

Harry and Ron, friends since they were ten, didn’t need to even look at one another as they moved forward wrapped in the cloak. They were like minded in an instant and walked with assured and quiet steps. Not a sound from their shoes, not even a flutter from the fabric that so easily hid them from view.

The dark man seemed to have stopped talking and grew very still. Harry and Ron both froze.

Slowly the man turned. It was as though he was staring right _through_ Harry, his eyes bright in the shadow of the cloak, his face hidden from view. An obfuscation charm of some sort. As hard as Harry stared at the man no features beyond the glitter of his eyes were revealed. He couldn’t even tell the _color_ of the man’s eyes.

The dark man’s gloved hand went to the counter and his other fell into the folds of his coat. Ron reached for his own wand ready to draw in an instant.

But then the bar top sprang to life, from greyed unpolished wood to writhing plank. It twisted and pulled against it’s moorings. Beer sloshed about its top as wood screamed and pulled from screws.

The Aurors in the corner abruptly stopped their singing and stood, wands out and pointed at the man. His friend stepped back the fear now completely naked on his pale face.

The bar top finally lurched free from the counter and swung wildly in front of the man. Neither Harry or Ron had a chance to duck before they were struck hard by the plank of wood. Both men grunted in surprised as they fell to the floor. Two pairs of boots, caked in the dirt of the street suddenly appeared on the ground. Their cover blown neither man hesitated. The Invisibility Cloak fell away as they stood. Stupefys spewed forth from their wands in the direction of the dark man. Two more sailed past their ears from the Aurors in the corner.

The dark man didn’t even flinch just waved his hand and carelessly tossed the spells aside.

His entire body shuddered in place-flickering in and out of existence as he tried to flee. Harry grinned. The Auror on the street had been quick with his anti-Apparating charm. The alleged criminals were stuck.

But none of the men really expected the cloaked man to suddenly charge Harry. Another oomph as he was once more knocked into the floor. The Aurors in the corner cast more spells but the bar top intercepted them as if out to protect the dark man. Ron tried a spell of his own but the dark man’s friend had his wand out now and was casting spells of his own. Ron quickly dodged a nasty looking curse and fought back.

The dark man grabbed Harry by the front of his robe and slammed his forcefully into the dirty floor. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt exactly, but it was startling enough. Before he could reach out to grabble with the man he was up, his cloak moving just beyond Harry’s fingertips.

“Stop him!” he shouted at the Aurors, but the dark man was running now and with a wave of his hand both Aurors were knocked back. Harry scrambled to his feet and gave chase.

#

Back out in the alley the fifth Auror had hidden himself, too busy casting the anti-Apparating charm to properly take part in the fight. Harry was on his own chasing after a man who seemed very at ease with wandless magic.

Only the man wasn’t _on_ the street. They were empty, the hour too late for even Knockturn Alley’s regulars. The man couldn’t have apparated. His Auror was quite good at stopping that sort of thing.

Then a tile slipped from from the roof overhead and gave the dark man away. Harry looked up in time to see the dark man scrambling between chimneys. Harry chased on foot, careful to keep the dark man in his sights. It would have been easier on a broom, but Harry didn’t have the time to call one from the Ministry to him.

When the man finally veered out of Harry’s sight he cast a quick levitating charm that brought him up onto the roof. The man was now a good three roofs away and moving quickly, spryly leaping from building to building like some sort of superhero, his cloak fluttering behind him in the breeze. Harry picked up speed, his long legs eating up the distance between he and the shorter man. He tried casting a few haphazard curses and charms but the other man just as haphazardly waved his arm and scattered them across the rooftops.

Harry would need something stronger then a stupefy to stop this fellow. “Reducto!” Harry shouted. The spell exploded out of his wand, racing through the night to shatter the tile roof between the dark man’s feet. He immediately stopped his hands shooting up into the air in surrender.

Harry paused and tried very hard not to pant like he really wanted to. He could see the other man’s form, still despite the chase. If he wasn’t out of breath Harry certainly couldn’t be.

“Now turn around,” he said in his best Auror tone. The man slowly turned, hands still raised. “Throw you wand on the ground and drop the hood.”

The man stood still. The air, cold and quick moving on the roof, moved the man’s cloak about pulling it away from his body and revealing the lithe form beneath.

“Now.”

The man stared back. Then, carefully, he lifted a foot and took a step back.

“Another step and I’ll curse you to next Tuesday.”

The way the hood of the cloak shifted the man must have tilted his head to the side. Slim shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. Then the man apparated into the night air with not even a pop. 

Harry’s promised curse flew harmless into a chimney where it sizzled a moment before fading.

Harry didn’t move, his wand still out and pointed at nothing, his stance still ready for a duel. He was too mad, irate at himself and the damned over-dresser who’d escaped him.

Heavy steps on the roof behind him caused Harry to turn. It was Ron, as red faced and out of breath as Harry felt. “Where’d he go?”

“Moved beyond the charm.”

“We lost him?”

“Could have apparated to France for all we know. What about his friend?”

Ron grinned and pocketed the wand he still had out, “So stupefied his grandchildren will be sleeping. They’re taking him back to the ministry now. Figure we can have a good and proper interrogation after we get some sleep.”

“Any idea who he is?”

“Oh yeah. Finnegus Moore.”

That was a surprise. Moore ran his own little outfit of illicit and illegal magic supplies. He’d always been very careful to avoid the Ministry and his operation was small, small enough and quiet enough that the Ministry tended to turn a blind eye to what he imported and exported.

“What got him out of his little hidey hole?”

“A dark wizard with the ability to bring a bar to life. A bar which is now firewood by the way.”

“Looking forward to picking his brain.”

Ron’s smile dimmed, “Except no sooner was he unconscious then an owl swooped in to inform us that we could not question him without a lawyer present.”

“Any bottom feeder we know?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

“Yeah. I’ll definitely need a good night’s rest before that interrogation.”

Ron clapped him on the back, “Stiff drink _then_ a good night’s rest.”


	5. Some Women Are Just That Way

Hermione was rather proud of herself. She managed to get out of the house without Hugo or Rose begging to join her and she’d made it into and through Diagon Alley without a single awkward reunion. There’d been a few curious looks from people as she’d done her business. Those stares where one could clearly see the person trying to put a name to a face.

That’s why Hermione had worn her hair up. After her teeth her hair had been her most recognizable quality growing up. She didn’t have a scar or glasses or bright red hair, just big teeth and bigger hair. She had no idea if people still remembered her teeth (she certainly did), but she didn’t take chances with her hair. 

Last thing she needed was someone like Rita Skeeter noticing her and publishing it in all the papers and having it get back to Ron and Harry before she had the chance to contact them.

And she _would_ contact them. Soon. It was only fair. Years with nothing but some vague owls. They owed it to each other to sit down and have a chat. But Rose still needed books and robes for school and Hugo still needed uniforms and Sarah was getting in in only a few hours and then they’d be busy buying warehouses and office space and contacting clients.

Ron and Harry could wait another day.

“Hermione?” 

Or not. She resisted a cringe and turned to greet the voice. She was surprised to find a curvy beauty where once there’d been the stocky Ginny Weasley. Time had done the woman quiet well.

Ginny smiled. Wait, it wasn’t a smile. It was a grin, a warm and contagious grin. She crossed the bit of street between them and wrapped Hermione up in a rather strong pair of arms then swung the taller woman a bit.

“Look at you!” She said exuberantly while setting Hermione down.

Not especially a vain woman, Hermione’s hands still reached up to check her hair. “Yes. Look at me. Wait no. Look at you Ginny Weasley…er Potter right? You and Harry got married.”

Ginny’s grin never wavered and Hermione found the unbridled joy nearly infections. “Married _and_ divorced. Like a proper Quidditch couple.”

Well she was certainly taking things well wasn’t she?

Hermione wasn’t nearly as happy, but she tried to keep it from showing on her face. How could they be divorced? They’d been such a good couple! Ginny leading the Hogwarts rebellion and Harry spending _endless_ hours in the tent staring at the Marauder’s Map when he thought Hermione was asleep. He’d pined for Ginny. Harry Potter! He didn’t even pine for Cho. That had just been dopey looks, and as she gathered, even dopier kissing. But he and Ginny. They were meant to be. He’d saved her from Voldemort and cheered her on the Quidditch field. They were perfect. Had to be perfect. If they couldn’t make it who could?

“Oh Ginny. I’m so sorry.” She wasn’t. She was horrified. “What happened?”

Ginny waved her hand dismissively, not the least bit upset. “Another woman. Water under the bridge! You though! Got Ron all sold on educated Muggle woman. Disappeared. Broke my mother’s heart. You! Where have you been?”

Molly Weasley. Scarier then Voldemort on a tear. Someone she hadn’t said goodbye to. Someone she was terrified of saying hello to.

“America.”

“And you’re married yeah? Loads of kids. I read your owls you know.”

“Widowed. The kids are here with me.”

For the first time Ginny’s grin faltered. “Oh Hermione. When?”

No time for pity Granger. “Three months ago. We moved back here to be closer to family. But I’m good,” For Ginny. “I am good.” For herself.

Ginny was quiet a moment. Hermione watched Ginny’s eyes narrow as she absorbed the information. Then that infectious little grin returned. “Of course you are. I wouldn’t expect any less. But what do I call you now?”

She looked at Ginny in confusion. “What?”

“Your last name?”

“Granger. Professionally it’s still Granger.”

“Professionally? Hermione we shared a room together. You had to listen to me ache and moan about Harry’s hairy bum for years. So personally what do I call you when Hermione’s too big a mouthful, because I have to warn you, I’m a bit done with first names. Especially at home. Weasley’s so much easier you see. Just shout it and someone always comes running. Even those sister-in-laws. Took their names without a second thought. Not a hyphen from the lot of them.” Her smiled turned almost sly. “But you. Hermione Granger, founder of SPEW. You had a hyphen didn’t you?”

“Granger-Thomas. Not as colorful as some but—“

Ginny let out an exhalation of air that sounded and awful lot like a “pft” and snaked her arm through Hermione’s guiding the older woman towards the exit and away from the sea of people watching them. “Granger-Thomas is a fine name. Good and British. You had me worried. Living in America. All sorts of odd names there. Now kids. Two right?”

“Rose and Hugo.”

“Rubbish names.”

“And yours are better?”

“Albus, Lily and James.”

“Well see that’s not fair. Naming them after dead heroes. Of course they’ll sound a bit better.”

“But Hugo? Really Hermione. All those years saddled with your name why’d you go and do a thing like that to your son?”

“He’s after my father.”

“Oh. Oh goodness your dad’s not dead is he? If he is then it’s a wonderful name. Very heroic and clean teeth sounding.”

“No he’s alive and well and still cleaning teeth. The pair of them are fine.”

“Good. Rose is nice though. Very flowery. We’ll get her together with Lily and they can start a garden.”

They were on the streets of London now. Away from the crowds of Diagon Alley where the two of them together would have been newsworthy. Hermione was a little surprised. Ginny had effortlessly guided her out and hadn’t even needed to ask if she should.

They parted and Ginny looked around before drawing something that looked rather suspiciously like car keys out of her bag. Ginny followed Hermione’s eyes and looked at the keys in her hand. “What? You need a lift?”

“No I apparated. Are those care keys?”

Ginny buffed them against her chest in pride. “They are. Maggie thought it’d be good if I learned. For when the kids are in Muggle school.”

“You have your kids in Muggle school?”

“Of course! Harry and I both work. You think I want to hire some nanny to take care of them? No ma’am. Muggle school until they’re ten. Then,” she snapped, “Off to Hogwarts.”

“They’re all at Hogwarts now?”

“Except Lily. She starts next year.”

“So does Hugo.”

“Oh good! We’ll get them together. Start them on the Gryffindor path early.”

Hermione shook her head trying to sort out everything.

Ginny asked, “What?”

“You. Ginny. You! I mean look at you. Single mom. Witch driving a car. Sending her kids to a Muggle school. Working.”

Ginny grinned. “Well I _am_ the Modern Witch. They said it in a magazine and everything.”

“I’m happy for you.”

Ginny clapped her on the back, “You should be! Life’s brilliant. Well love life isn’t, but that’s because the pot’s so small.” She then took up both of Hermione’s hands in her own and looked at her very intently. “The important question is when are we getting together Hermione Granger-Thomas? I’m going to warn you. You’re probably thinking I’m asking so that I can force you back into the Weasley fold. But it’s entirely selfish. A lot of folks weren’t too keen on me and Harry splitting and I’ve got a complete dearth of drinking buddies. I’m recruiting you.”

“Into a dinner party?” Too soon. A house full of Weasleys. Molly Weasley chopping up food loudly while glaring at Hermione. Harriet insisting on coming and bringing that awful prune cake. She could feel the blood draining from her face. The very thought of it all about to send her into shock. Ginny must of noticed the change in Hermione’s pallor. She shook Hermione’s hands a little to get her attention.

“Not everyone. You and me for drinks. Maybe once a week. And a dinner with the boys sooner. Your place? Just me, Harry, Ron and Maggie. Lily and the wee twins can come too maybe.”

“Twins?” she croaked.

“Maggie and Ron’s. We Weasley’s like to do babies in pairs apparently. They’re four.”

“Oh. Maggie. Ron’s—“

“Wife,” Ginny finished, nodding sagely. “Afraid the HMS Ron’s sailed. Maggie’s some kind of doctor and she’s got him using a telephone and Mom lets her cook in the kitchen. Fleur says she’s going to lead a rebellion of the women married to Weasley men if the favoritism doesn’t stop.”

“She sounds perfect for Ron.”

“I like her. She’s not you, but you’re not her so I won’t hold it against either of you. But dinner, the fabulous trio and their immediate family. You have to Granger-Thomas.”

Hermione looked down the street watching lots of important looking men walking in and out of important looking banks. “I haven’t told them I’m back,” she finally confessed.

Ginny shrugged. “Of course not. Nothing’s ever easy with you three. Me. I’d send an owl. But you lot have to have faraway looks and angsty sounding voices.” She shook her finger at Hermione. “Seven o’clock. Saturday. That gives you three days to have it all out with those two and reconcile so we can all eat treacle pudding and figure out who’s gotten the fattest since school.”

Hermione knew that she really would be far too busy with work to say yes, but she said yes anyways because it gave her a goal and when Ron and Harry were concerned a goal was very much necessary. “Friday. I expect you to have put on at least two stone by then so you can win the fattest award.”

“I’ll try for three.” She waved at Hermione, the car keys jingling in her hand then apparated away.

Dinner with Harry and Ron. And a muggle doctor. And children. And Ginny Weasley (who Hermione strongly suspected was on some sort of controlled substance). It was never simple and easy was it?


	6. Interrogations

Harry had kind of hoped that after Hogwarts he’d never have to see Draco Malfoy again. But then he’d never expected Malfoy to go into law. When a wizard was as rich as Malfoy had been employment just didn’t seem necessary. But Malfoy had gone off and taken courses and now, despite “officially” being a good wizard absolved of his crimes during the war, he worked for the nastiest and meanest wizards in England; making sure they spent as little time as possible in jail. Fortunately Harry’s office had few occasions to deal with him. Most Dark Art cases were open and shut.

But Finnegus Moore had been arrested after he attacked Aurors and while in collusion with what was clearly a very dark wizard. So there Harry and Ron sat, in a tiny room across from two men who had no right to dress as nicely as they did. Despite a night in jail Moore looked clean and well rested. His expensive suit and robes were all pressed with not a wrinkle in sight. Malfoy’s garments weren’t as overtly evil looking. He’d apparently given up dressing in only black and silver and was wearing a dark grey suit with red pinstripes. His blond hair was short, a contrast to his father’s very well known long tresses, but he’d apparently stopped shaving at some point (unheard of for a Malfoy man) and had a neatly trimmed beard that was just a few shades darker then his hair.

He smiled warmly at Ron and Harry, trying to use the charm that had kept his entire family out of prison after the War. “Ron, Harry. It’s been a while.”

“Wish it could have been longer,” mumbled Ron.

“I whole heartedly agree Weasley, but alas, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement decided to use their Aurors as some sort of—I can only assume a hit squad—and needlessly attacked my client.”

Harry had to be patient, because when it came to Malfoys Ron wouldn’t be, and they needed the interview (Malfoy refused to have it referred to as an interrogation) to last more then the time it would take for Ron to punch Draco in his very blond beard.

“Finnegus Moore assaulted four Aurors in the course of their duties.”

“After I was attacked first!” Moore shouted. 

Malfoy placed a hand on his client’s wrist. “Mr. Moore is correct. You fired at him first.”

“No,” Ron said through a jaw so clenched it was a marvel he could even breathe, “your _client_ was in the company of a dark wizard who attacked four Aurors. Rather then surrender his wand and make it clear he was not involved… or you know, duck, your client attempted to curse me.”

“I did no such thing!”

“You tried to turn my head into a pumpkin!”

“Put it in a pumpkin! Very different.”

Harry was horrified to realize he just shared a look of annoyance with Draco Malfoy. Malfoy seemed equally irritated and they both reach out to calm the men sitting next to them.

“Your client attacked Aurors,” Harry said, “But we don’t want to press charges.”

Ron looked at him in surprise and Draco raised two perfectly groomed eyebrows. “Then I can only assume you want something,” Malfoy said once the shock had warn off. “Because you incarcerated my client last night and you’ve got us sitting in this awful little room at the moment.”

Harry nodded, “We just want to know who you were talking to.”

Draco leaned over to confer with his client but Moore leaned in towards Harry and Ron, “I won’t tell you.”

Both Aurors stared back unflinching. Malfoy gave them an apologetic smile and tugged on Moore’s sleeve. “We should discuss this.”

“Nothing to discuss. Not saying a word.”

“Really it’s in your interest to make a deal.”

“Why? You’ll get me off.” Ron chuckled and Moore sneered. “Perv,” he muttered.

If he hadn’t been in the room he was positive Ron and Moore would have just spent the next two hours calling each other names like a bunch of six year olds. Harry said confidently, “No he won’t.” 

Finnegus Moore looked from the Auror who sat there with a smug expression on his face, to his lawyer who watched him carefully, “what’s he talking about?”

“You weren’t arrested by a Department lackey. You were arrested by a squad of Aurors personally led by the head Auror. A man who defeated Voldemort and consequently has quite a bit of goodwill from the Wizengamot.”

Moore glanced over at Draco as if for confirmation. He shrugged and Ron grinned a bit too widely to be polite.

“You don’t understand. I _can’t_ tell you.”

“He’s got you under a spell then?” Ron asked. He looked at Harry, “Isn’t it always the way?”

Moore shook his head, “I don’t know who he is.”

Ron was intrigued, apparently to the point that he’d forgotten to be annoyed that Malfoy was in his presence. He leaned across the table. “I know quite a bit about you Finnegus. Clever for a man who makes his living in the most illegal manners possible. What would possess you to take a meeting with a man without even knowing his name.”

Moore was looking a bit nervous. His pale skin was a little glossy with oil and sweat and his eyes looked too watery. “This guy had friends. You understand? He was,” he paused in search of just the right word, “connected. Could connect me. I got a line on a chance to meet him and I took it. Business is getting rougher all the time and it would have been good business.”

“Only it wasn’t.”

“I don’t know how you lot knew about it, but he was on to you the minute he walked in the pub. Accused me of setting him up. But I didn’t.”

“Any idea who did?”

He shook his head, “I wish I knew. Because he’s out and about and ready to kill me and I’m stuck in this dank little room.”

Ron nodded, “And he probably thinks you’re an informant. Telling us everything you know.”

Malfoy looked from his client to Ron who was still smiling, enjoying the way Moore squirmed. “Looks like we’re done, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ron and Harry shared a look and Harry nodded, “Mr. Moore is free to go.”

#

Outside the “interview” room Malfoy spoke with Moore a few moments before sending the man back home. He then turned to Harry and Ron who waited patiently next to a table with a self-replenishing tea pot. Ron had poured a rather large cup and proceeded to add enough milk and sugar to ruin any of the beneficial properties of the drink.

Malfoy approached them with a thoughtful expression on his shrewd little face.

“You’ll both have to understand that I must be tremendously vague with what I’m saying?”

Harry nodded and Ron loudly sipped his tea.

“I don’t know details but I’ve heard things from clients. Things that suggest an organization that’s previously avoided England has found its way here.”

That much Harry and Ron had suspected. Their “informant” via owl had been extraordinarily vague but the men weren’t stupid. 

“This organization is very,” Malfoy sighed in an effort to stall as he looked for the right words, “connected.”

“That’s what Moore said,” Ron noted, “You were there. Remember Malfoy?”

“They’re dangerous Weasley. Maybe no one as powerful as Voldemort was, but they’re organized, passionate and absurdly rational. That’s an awful combination for law abiding citizens such as myself.”

Harry asked quietly, “Why are you telling us this.”

Draco looked at him chewing over his words, conscious of the fact that their conversation was hardly confidential. “I’ve got a son and a wife. I love them dearly.” Ron snorted. “And these men are dangerous.” He laughed a little, amused at his own thoughts, “You knowI don’t think I’d even represent them if given the chance.”

Ron set his cup down next to the tea pot and crossed his arms appraising the shorter man, “Putting yourself at a risk aren’t you Malfoy? Badmouthing some big dark arts group?”

Malfoy stuck Ron with a cool gaze. “During the war? My wife was a Slytherin but she in that last battle she didn’t join them. She knew her place was with the rest of Hogwarts. She’s amazing and noble,” he smiled. Even now a smile on Draco Malfoy’s face was a disconcerting thing to see. It reminded Harry of school. Of Albus Dumbledore being struck dead. Draco continued, “How can I be married to an amazing and noble woman if I’m not willing to be as amazing and noble. I’m telling you this for her.”

Ron was too shocked by such an honest and agreeable admission from Malfoy to properly respond, so Harry thanked him for his time and escorted him out of the Department. When he returned Ron was still standing there chewing his lower lip and staring into space.

Harry waved a hand in front of his friend’s face. “You all right?”

“The way I see it the world’s got to be coming to an end.”

“Because Malfoy seemed honest?”

“Because Malfoy wanted to do something good without a wand pointed at his head.” Harry smiled but it clearly wasn’t as affable as Ron would have liked. “What’s up?”

The smile disappeared completely. “Malfoy said something before he left.”

“Seeing as you look like you’d rather eat one of my socks then tell me I have to assume it’s bad.”

“He gave me a name. Someone we should talk to.”

A dark look flit across Ron’s face as apprehension took hold. “Who?”

Harry didn’t want to say. He knew he had to. Knew it the moment Malfoy uttered the name. The Weasleys were like any wizarding family from the war. They’d lost more then one loved one to the curse of a Death Eater. But the Weasleys were Harry’s family. Their losses, like his own, weren’t just statistics for the history books. And Fred’s death especially so. George didn’t joke as easily as he once did. Percy wasn’t as condescending and Harry had woken up more then once in the night to the sound of Ginny’s tears.

But he had to tell Ron. Had to scratch at a wound that would never heal. Had to poke and prod. He was grateful, at least, for Draco Malfoy. The barrister had elected to tell Harry the name outside of Ron’s earshot. He might still have been a bastard but at least he’d shown a little grace.

“Augustus Rookwood.”

Ron had a nasty temper and had had one as long as Harry’d known him. So he’d expected a bit of anger at it all. And for a second it looked like Ron would go on a tear cursing Rookwood, the Ministry and perhaps God himself. But grief is a funny thing. And as quick as Ron was to anger in an instance he was just as quickly moved to melancholy. His face fell a little as the implications of the name went through his mind.

Finally, “Harry mate, I don’t think I’m up to that interview today,” he said softly.

Harry didn’t point out that it was barely ten and the case was their top priority. 

“Mr. Potter!”

Harry cringed, the shrill note of the speaker’s voice more irritating then being referred to as mister. He turned to find Bonnie Salander running down the hallway towards him quite red in the face. She was a tiny thing. Barely five feet tall, and _young_. Harry didn’t remember ever being that young. Barely out of Hogwarts she’d blown through coursework in the general Department and quickly applied for a position as Auror. Harry and her supervisor in general had agreed to give it a year. Now still not twenty the little blond headed girl was his youngest Auror, and working very hard to be his most passionate. She was a font of information that had Ron calling her Baby Hermione behind her back. The other Aurors, not having the privilege of knowing Hermione called her Baby Auror. And she let them.

“Mr. Potter! I need—“ She stopped and stared at Ron then turned back to Harry, “I need to speak with you alone.”

Ron was still mulling over the news about Rookwood, so Harry gave her the confused look instead. “What’s the trouble Salander?”

“If we could…” She motioned to a point far away from Ron. He seemed to notice she was standing there and waved them both off.

“It’s all right. I’ve got some work to do in the bullpen anyways.”

Ron clapped Harry on the back and left, but not before making faces behind the oblivious baby’s back. When he was out of earshot Harry asked, “All right Salander. What’s so critical you had to come screeching through the halls of the Department.”

“I saw something sir. Something you—“ and she was very emphatic about this next part, “ _need_ to know about.”


	7. Can't We Be Friends

 

 

Ginny was expecting to walk into the fabulous home she afforded with her Harpy contract and be completely alone. Lily would be at school and Albus and James were at Hogwarts until Christmas. As soon as the car was parked she was apparating into the house and stripping off clothes and heading for a hot shower before an afternoon paying bills.

Only she wasn’t alone. A big tall stupid looking man with dark hair and glasses was coming out of her study. They saw each other and both promptly screamed in very loud, very high, very unbecoming voices. Ginny dove out of view.

“Harry! The hell are you doing here?”

He did sound a little meek, what with walking in on his ex-wife half naked. “I needed a book.”

“That’s why they have libraries.”

“Why are you naked? You know the neighbors can see you if they wanted.”

She looked from her hiding place to the window directly opposite her. No one was in the yard outside but if they were they’d be telling her how fabulous she looked especially after three children. She jabbed her wand in the direction of the window and it promptly darkened.

Warm breath on her shoulder caused her to spin around and stick her wand straight up Harry’s nose. He was unimpressed and looking quite too intently at her breasts. She put one arm over them for a sense of decency but kept her wand still firmly wedged in his nostril.

“You look fabulous Ginny.”

“You’re a git Harry. Now why are you really here?”

He waved a book about. “I left this here when I was watching Lily.”

“And you just waltzed in.”

“Thought I was getting a book, not a book and a show.”

“I’m not sure what will happen if I cast a spell _in_ your nose but I’m willing to find out.”

“Not my fault you go galavanting around the house naked.”

“Yes it is. It’s _my_ house. I can galavant as I please.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. He stopped grinning and trying to get a peak at her breasts and started looking at her all intent like. All _Auror_ like.

“Where have you been?”

She withdrew her wand from his nose, but was too reluctant to look down and see if there was a bogey on it. “Excuse me.”

“Just now where were you?”

Ginny walked around her suspicious looking ex and stooped to pick her shirt and pants up. “Out,” she called over her shoulder.

“Diagon Alley?”

She paused over a fabulous purple shoe with a turquoise heel. “What?”

“Diagon Alley. That’s where you were?”

Ginny clutched the clothes to her chest and stood up proper to face Harry. “Why on earth are you wondering where I was?”

“I was curious!”

“About what I do in the mornings. It’s hardly a secret.”

“Baby Auror came in today. Said she saw you in Diagon Alley. Saw you with someone special.” He was closer now. A second from invading her personal bubble. She’d seen him do it a few time with thugs he interrogated. Skinny as he was he was still tall enough to hulk a bit, especially over someone as short as herself.

And he knew. Somehow this Auror had recognized her and recognized Hermione and now he probably thought she’d known Hermione was coming to town and he was here to be a prat and demand details about her friendships which she had no intention of giving up thankyouverymuch.

She had to go on the offense. “You weren’t here for the book.”

“Yes I was.”

“No. You came to ask about who I was meeting in Diagon Alley.”

“No I was here for the book, I was just curious about the woman.”

“You’re such a liar. I didn’t know she’d be there.”

“What? Look if you want to meet your girlfriend in the middle of Diagon Alley by all means do it, but if you’re dating someone I kind of didn’t want to have to hear it from Baby Auror.”

“Dating. You think Hermione and I are dating?”

“Yes-Hermione?”

Realization dawned. Of course Harry didn’t know Hermione was in town. Of course Ginny would have to tell him while wearing nothing but a pair of panties and of course they’d have to stare at one another with their mouths wide open in shock. Enough Bludgers to the face and even as practical a woman as Ginny Weasley was prone to a bit of stupidity.

“Hermione Granger.” Harry finally said.

“She got back into town yesterday I think. She was out shopping. That’s who I ran into.”

She’d grown used to Harry’s need to process things. In emotional matters he was a thinker—a brooder. The news was working it’s way through the synapses of his brain seeping into all that gray matter and forming thoughts, emotions. In these circumstances it had always fallen to Ginny to comfort him. Even after the divorce she was the caregiver.

She took him by the elbow and guided him to the couch and set him down. Pulling on her shirt she went into the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. She came back and handed it to him—watching him drink it in only a few long gulps. Then she sat next to him, close enough that he could feel her warmth but far enough that they didn’t actually touch.

“Her husband just passed away,” she said quietly. 

Harry looked up from where he’d been staring at the empty glass in his hands.

“I don’t really know the details. I think she and her children are living with her parents. Trying to find her footing.”

“She should have written.”

“I imagine—hope she’s been busy. She said she was going to get ahold of you and Ron though. Have a little dinner or something.” She smiled a bit conceitedly, “I invited myself.” Harry started laughing suddenly. “What?”

“It’s just Salander. She was all scandalized about your new girlfriend. And it was Hermione Granger! Imagine _Witch Weekly_ getting ahold of that one.”

Ginny laughed to. “That would have been brilliant. Can you imagine my mom’s face? Or Hermione’s?”

The both started laughing the images. But some other thought seemed to cross Harry’s mind. The laughter died as he suddenly asked, “Should I go see her? Hermione I mean. Bring her a fruit basket or something.”

“Why on earth would you bring her a fruit basket?”

“Food. When Muggles mourn they always bring each other food.”

“I don’t see how it could hurt. You taking Ron?”

“I prefer to steer clear of those two. I mean have they even talked since she left?”

Ginny thought about it. Ron hadn’t ever mentioned Hermione. Least not after the first few months. And she was fairly certain Maggie didn’t even know who Hermione was. “I guess I didn’t think of that. He always told everyone it was amicable.”

“Ginny our divorce was amicable. They haven’t spoken in fifteen years.”

#

Setting her bags down in the living room Hermione tried to think of a reason to get out of doing what she intellectually knew she very much needed to do. Sarah would arrive in London in a few hours and they’d spend the last bit of the afternoon looking at properties. Hugo needed to have a proper uniform for his new school. Harriet and Hugo Sr. had insisted that Hermione and the children all come in for a good teeth cleaning and check up. And Hermione needed to go and buy a new car already.

But she’d run into Ginny Weasley and now felt it very necessary to contact at least Ron. It wasn’t fair for him to find out from his sister, or worse, _Witch Weekly_. But how did one even look up an old fiance/best friend? In the US she’d look him up online or give him a phone call. Only it was England and Ron was a very traditional sort of wizard. Did she owl him? Show up at his home with a smile and an apology? Just walk right into his office?

“Mom?” Hermione looked up. Rose was standing at the top of the stairs looking at her oddly. “Everything all right?”

“Sorry?”

“You’ve been standing there a full minute staring at the wall. The wallpaper Harriet put up isn’t that fascinating.”

“Don’t call your grandmother by her first name.”

“I’m not calling her Moomsie.”

Hermione shuddered. Harriet had been delighted by the idea of the name. She didn’t have the heart to tell her mother exactly why it was very, very awful.

“Try Grandmama.”

Rose groaned at the suggestion and flopped down onto a step. “You sound so British when you say that. ‘Grandma _ma_ ,” Rose did a surprisingly passable Hermione impression, “might you fetch me some _tea_ so that we might partake of it whilst watching the _telly_.”

“No one talks like that.”

“Granddad called it the telly last night. And he called one of the shows his _program_.”

“You grandfather is very old fashioned in some respects. _Not_ the norm.” She pulled out one of Rose’s new robes and tossed it to her daughter. “Try that on.”

“They really make us wear robes?”

“And jumpers and ties.”

Rose groaned again and laid back over the stairs. There was the sound of feet running through the hallway upstairs. Then Hugo sailed into view, landing rear first in Rose’s lap. She made some sort of noise between a strangled groan and a scream and shoved him off so forcefully his head smacked against the wall.

Most children, after seeing stars from such a blow would have at least looked dazed. Hugo was too amused by his sister’s histrionics to be in pain. Rose had curled up into a bit of a ball and was holding her stomach.

“Hugo Wilfred Thomas!” Hermione didn’t bother to walk the few feet choosing to instantly apparate and wrap a finger around Hugo’s ear. She pulled him up by said ear and down the stairs. “What on earth are you doing?”

He didn’t have a chance to tell her because Rose was done moaning in a ball and launched herself at Hugo. He wasn’t about to be caught by his very irate sister. He slipped out of his mother’s grasp and went running through the house towards the backyard…screaming the entire time. Rose, who was really too old for such nonsense, gave chase, an equally loud screech coming out of her mouth.

It was a moment where Hermione regretted being an only child. Even at school the relationships she’d had had been nothing like what Rose and Hugo shared. They could be terribly violent with one another one instant and then tender the next. The only person she’d ever been especially violent with was Draco Malfoy and she certainly couldn’t imagine giving him a hug later.

Perhaps Ron. There had been quite a bit of animosity between them, but their tender moments had been decidedly _un_ -sibling like.

Ron.

Hugo Sr. was shouting outside finally pulling apart the siblings; so Hermione went to the couch so that she could at least be comfortable while staring ahead in deep thought. She needed to contact him, and the sooner the better. Her run in with Ginny had been in the middle of Diagon Alley, and although she could expect Ginny to not say anything the same couldn’t be said of all the people staring when Ginny saw her.

Hugo Sr. walked in drying his hands with a paper towel and shaking his head. “Your daughter was giving Hugo something called an ‘indian burn.’ I haven’t a clue as to what that means but he was making an awful racket.”

“Where are they now?”

“Staring at the wall in separate corners of the kitchen. Everything all right dear?”

Her father was terribly absent-minded. Although Hermione was his only daughter and he adored her he had never been very good at the whole emotion thing. It was probably owing to the fight he had just broken up that he’d taken a moment to really look at Hermione and realized she wasn’t doing particularly well.

She tried to keep the tremble out of her voice with a deep inhalation of air. “I’m all right dad. Just didn’t realize how difficult it’d be coming home.”

“Something happen while you were out?”

“Not really, there’s just some people I need to see.”

“Ah, those two boyfriends of yours?”

She laughed. He’d never known them as Ron and Harry. Instead he’d called them the “boyfriends” and given a very over the top protective dad scowl whenever she mentioned them. 

“Yeah,” she said, “the two boyfriends. It’s better if I get it out of the way now.”

He tossed the used paper towel in a bin. “Makes sense. I take it I’m to watch the two terrors in the kitchen?”

“If you could?”

He returned to the kitchen leaving Hermione alone once more. She tried to do what had grown comfortable in the last three months. Tried to get herself so miserable that she didn’t want to move and could just get away with curling up on the couch and waiting for it to all be done with. But the sounds of her children bickering in the kitchen wouldn’t allow it.

She bit back a groan as she stood up, her knees creaking a bit more then they used to and her back ached liked she’d never imagined as a child. It had happened. Some moment in the last fifteen years she’d grown old. How would Ron look? Would his hair still be a bit too long? Would Harry have finally grown distinguished as she expected, or would he still be the scrawny teenager in his sizable cousin’s hand me downs?


	8. A Park Bench

Hermione had made it all the way to the Ministry of Magic (which wasn’t that impressive as she’d just apparated to a kebob shop nearby) before she turned chicken. She was standing in the little stall with her hand on the lever when she realized how incredibly silly it was of her to just waltz right into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and say hello. Who did that? Who just popped in for a quick chat after fifteen years apart?

An irritated witch’s pounding on the stall door had been the final straw. She’d stepped out of the little toilet bowl and ducked her head to avoid the glare of the witch on the other side of the stall door. She’d then walked very quickly towards the bathroom exit and made her way out onto the street.

But Hermione needed air. She needed to sit a moment and try to screw up the courage again. Her steps were that funny mix between a walk and a jog as she hurriedly moved down Whitehall and onto a side street before catching sight of the Thames. That funny smell owned solely by big dirty bodies of fresh water caught in her nose. She crossed another less populated street and went down a few steps onto the promenade that stretched along the coast of the river.

It was mid-afternoon. Politicians and the more gainfully employed were all wrapped up in their offices and meeting rooms leaving the promenade to be populated by a few smokers, bums and teens avoiding school. She looked for a free bench but instead found something more unexpected.

His back was to her as he was also staring out at the Thames, but she recognized the hair. It was still as red and shaggy as she remembered it. They were closing in on forty but from where she stood it looked as though he’d still avoided the early gray hairs most gingers seemed to be afflicted with. She slowly came around the side of the bench to watch him in profile. He looked good. He had a beard, something she wasn’t crazy about, and it looked a few shades darker and redder then the hair on top of his head. His eyes looked dark and his mouth was set in a grimace. She half expected him to bring a cigarette or a bottle of beer to his lips. But his hands were empty and wrapped into fists between his legs.

He must have felt her stare because he looked up sharply. She had no idea who he’d expected to find there, but it couldn’t have been her. It hurt, the amount of time it took him to recognize her. It wasn’t instant as it had once been. Their familiarity had been lost to time.

He seemed confused at first. Then he realized he really was staring at who he’d thought he was staring at and his look turned to wonder. “Hermione?”

“Hello Ron.” He stood. Started forward and then stopped. His hands were outstretched a bit as if he meant to hug her. She took it upon herself to close the distance and embrace him. “It’s been a while.”

“Years,” he managed to croak out. They broke apart and he looked around, perhaps expecting more company. “Did you come looking for me,” he asked.

“I was going to the Ministry actually. Thought I’d find you and Harry. Promptly realized how silly that was.”

“It wouldn’t have been silly.”

“Just a bit.”

He shrugged a little, “Maybe a little.” He stepped back to get a better look. Then said softly, “You look wonderful Hermione.”

She reached up and lightly stroked his beard, “I was thinking the same.” Ron pulled just out of her grasp and she let her hand fall to her side. It had been a bit presumptuous of her, touching him like that. “You’re married right? I seem to remember getting an owl to that effect?”

He immediately brightened at the mention and went into great details over how he’d met his Muggle doctor and how’d she been delighted by his magic and then curious. He told her about the twins, Edmund and Robert, and about the third one on the way. Lot’s of children like he’d always wanted. A wife not irrevocably changed by a war. It stirred something in her to watch him be so animated about his life.

There was some regret. Could things have been different for her in England? Maybe she could have found some handsome Auror or gentle doctor of her own. Maybe if she’d stayed she wouldn’t be a widow before she was forty. A single mother living with her parents. But she would have lost so much. Chiefly Rose and Hugo. They were what mattered. They were what she had to cherish.

“Why are you in town,” he asked. Ron had never been very good at reading Hermione’s emotions. It was what had kept them apart in school and what had been a major contribution to their separation as adults. If her expression was forlorn he never noticed.

“I moved back.” She tried to sound cheerful. She knew she had to get used to sounding happier then she was. It worked because his face brightened.

“Really? This is brilliant. We’ll have to get the gang together and show off the kids. They’re here too right?”

“Yes. We’re staying with my mom and dad until things are a bit more settled.”

Something seemed to dawn on Ron and he lowered his voice, as if the smoker leaning against the rail and staring at the river might have been a spy, “Do you need a job?”

She smiled. “No. I’ve still got one actually. I worked for an import/export company in America. My boss has finally seen reason and is having me open up a warehouse here.” She looked down at her wristwatch. “And in fact I’m to meet my PA out at a location she’s scouted in a bit. I’m not especially clear on where it is so I should probably go.”

“Oh.” When Ron Weasley wanted to he could really look forlorn.

She looked at him a moment. The breeze off the river was doing things with their hair causing even Ron’s shorter locks to fly about their faces. She brushed her hair back behind her ear and looked beyond Ron to the further reaches of the walkway. “You know, I suppose I’d have enough time for a quick drink. Maybe a cup of tea. Just you, me and a city of Muggles.”

“I think I’d like that.”

#

They ended up having coffee instead of tea. They’d been walking by a chain rather familiar to Hermione and she’d found herself suddenly sick with longing for America. Ron had balked at the idea of drinking the stuff, and after one taste declared it burnt and bitter, but it hadn’t been enough to drive him away.

Coffee in hand they’d settled at another bench overlooking the Thames. It was significantly cooler then the coffee shop, but more private, and though neither said it, they didn’t want to be caught by some erstwhile wizard and find themselves in the next issue of _Witch Weekly_.

The conversation had been a bit dark at first. Ron had asked about her husband and she’d told him exactly what she’d told Ginny. Part of her wanted to make a big sign saying, “My husband’s dead so I’ve moved back to England. Thanks for asking,” but then people would just ask why she felt the need to wear a sign, and she didn’t have a single pair of shoes that would look becoming beneath a giant placard.

She’d have to just get used to it. In the coming weeks she’d be dealing with more witches and wizards then she’d dealt with in months, and unlike the wizard population of America, these people would all know a great deal about her. There were _books_ about her. Ron insisted the Skeeter biography was not fit to be read and that he didn’t even read the love scenes. Knowing her former boyfriend’s healthy libido she doubted that assertion. She’d largely left because of the fame.

When she’d been holed up in Hogwarts with Harry and Ron and books she hadn’t thought too much about it. Sure the fame had inconvenienced her a few times. That Christmas in her fourth year had been especially miserable, but for the most part it had been easy to ignore. The Hogwarts bubble had kept her safe.

After school, and after the war it had all changed. She couldn’t go to Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley without people approaching her. The owls that had swooped in with love letters from barmy looking wizards had gotten to be such a nuisance that she’d actually locked up the windows. And her poor boys. Harry and Ron had been forced to spend all their time training to be Aurors or avoiding droves of lovesick witches. There’d been no time for just them.

By the time she’d boarded a plane for America she’d grown so distant that she hadn’t even missed them all that much.

Yet a simple coffee with Ron made her forget the last fifteen years. Except for the wrinkles around their eyes, and the very different rings on their fingers she could have closed her eyes and been back in school.

Ron snapped his fingers directly in front of her. “Hermione?” She looked at him in confusion. “You faded out a bit.”

They’d been talking about Harry and Ginny and whatever woman that had apparently come between them. Never one for social gossip she’d gotten caught up in staring at a bird trying to fly away with a pastry far to big for it’s small frame. “I was just thinking about when we were kids.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. It may shock you to know that I was a bit of a git in school.”

“Oh I know. Many tears were shed over it.”

There was an enormous grin then on Ron’s face. It was so big and happy that it terrified her a bit. “What?” She said, her tone caught up somewhere between a question and a laugh.

“Maggie’s going to love you. I’ve mentioned you a few times, and I think she’s got it in her head that you don’t really exist.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It is! George calls it the ‘Legend of Hermione Granger.’ You’re like some sort of academic bogey man for the Weasley kids.”

“That’s awful.”

“Well you could be Harry. Since the divorce he’s the butt of every joke George can think of. Ginny’s prepared a hex just especially for Christmas. Next joke at Harry’s expense and my dear brother will be a woman.”

That was certainly impressive. “Ginny can change his sex?”

Ron shrugged, “She _claims_ she can. And has told him as much. I’m rooting for her. I’ve always wanted another sister.”

They settled into an amiable silence. Finally she admitted, “You know Ron, this whole time I was terrified of seeing you, but here you are perfectly fine. You haven’t even shouted at me.”

He leaned back on the bench and settled his arms on the back of it. “I used to think about what I’d say to you after you left. Sometimes I’d get really angry about it. Other times I’d cry more then a girl with her funny business. But I’m really happy now Hermione.” And he looked happy. He was staring back a the river and with the collar of his coat turned up, that carefully trimmed beard and his posture so relaxed he looked as happy and as adult as he sounded (“girl’s funny business” aside). “Besides,” he continued, “Times have changed. I think…I think I’m over you.” That made since. Fifteen years was a ridiculous amount of time to pine for someone. “Besides Harry’s who you should worry about. I thought I held a grudge? Nothing on him.”

She looked up in confusion, “Harry’s mad at me?”

“You two had that row or whatever at his wedding and then you left. And then on top of that the only owls you send him are addressed to him **and** Ginny.”

She had never considered that. Harry had always seemed a bit exasperated with her letters, and when she’d left he’d been so busy with his work in the Ministry. And after their little row at his wedding it wasn’t like they’d been as close as they’d been during the war. It had only seemed natural to be a bit standoffish. It was what they’d both needed.

Right?


	9. A Doorstep At Dusk

He’d never really been to Hermione’s house. He’d seen it. He’d even been inside, but those opportunities had been brief. It hadn’t been like going to the Weasley’s or the Lovegood’s. Then he’d had the chance to actually look about. He’d been able to browse the books on their shelves, and the photos over the mantle. Any visit to Hermione’s home had been brief and had usually resulted in he and Ron standing outside while Hermione ran in for something she’d forgotten.

It was only the _outside_ of the house that Harry had any degree of familiarity with. In the years since he’d last seen it it had changed little. Maybe some of the flowers and bushes out front had grown, and the cars in the driveway were newer. Little things, too inconsequential to matter to him.

He wasn’t sure what he was expected to feel. Should he be nervous about seeing Hermione? Or angry? The only thing he really knew was that he needed to see her. He’d forgotten how much he’d missed her until Ginny had cried her name at the house. Everything, even the impending trip to Azkaban seemed to pale at the chance to reunite with one of his very best friends.

He took the last few steps to the door and checked his pocket watch. It was only five. People were usually home by five right? And not at work and not eating? Five had to be an optimal choice for an impromptu visit. As if of it’s own volition his finger rose to press the doorbell. He could hear it muffled by the door itself. A loud and tinny noise, followed by the loud slap of feet against carpet. Whoever was coming to answer was running at a fair clip.

The door swung open and Harry found himself waist to face with a young boy. He looked about Lily’s age and he had big warm brown eyes filled with curiosity. It was those eyes, and not the very curly hair on top his head that told Harry who he was.

“You must be Hugo,” he said. He held out his hand in greeting.

The boy took it and gave as firm a handshake as possible for a nine year old. “Hugo Thomas. Who are you?”

Not the least bit of tact. Definitely Hermione’s son. “I’m—“

“Harry Potter.”

His name came out as a whisper, but he heard it well enough and looked over Hugo’s head. Hermione was standing on the stairs wearing a jumper and jeans. Her hair had been pulled back with little whisps of it flying free and framing a face that had no right to look as young as it did. She’d grown a little taller, and a little thinner and a little fuller but she was still, “Hermione.”

She came down the steps and held the door open. Hugo looked from his mother to Harry in confusion. “Hugo,” she said absently, “tell your grandmother we’ve got another for dinner.”

He looked back at Harry with what he assumed was a suspicious look and then ran towards the kitchen. Hermione came closer, stepping out onto the doorstep and closing the door behind her. “Hello,” she said softly. They were nearly the same height, at least that hadn’t changed. He didn’t have to look down quite as he did with Ginny.

“Hello.”

“Did Ron tell?”

“What?”

“That I was back?”

“No Ginny. How did Ron—“

“I went looking for you two at the Ministry. Ginny told you?” Her voice went up at the end and she scowled, “I asked her not to.”

“I cornered her,” he offered. “I was about a step from making a potion to get it out of her.”

“And she used to be such a good little liar.”

He scoffed, “She still is, but when I have my eye on something there’s not much one can do to stop me.”

She took her hand from the door handle and raised it to touch his cheek, then paused and seemed to ask him for permission. He wasn’t aware of his face or even his eyes shifting, but whatever she saw told her it was all right. Her hand closed the gap and stroked his cheek. “Harry Potter,” she said in that private little tone she always got when commending him, “The great hero, always gets his man.”

“Or woman, in this case,” he said. It came out a bit more sheepishly then he’d intended.

Suddenly Hermione punched him. It was surprising, because she had always preferred hitting him upside the head, and because the blow to his shoulder actually hurt. She had bony little fists that jabbed right into his flesh. “Ow!” He rubbed at the spot and stepped back. 

Hermione kept coming forward, “That’s for cheating on Ginny and breaking up your marriage. What were you thinking?”

“What was I thinking? I wasn’t the one getting off with a teammate!”

“Getting off with a—but Ginny said there was a woman?”

“Yes,” her confusion evaporated any irritation Harry might have had. He’d learned to be very patient when explaining the dissolution of his marriage to Ginny Potter-Weasley. “Ginny was the one sleeping with a woman.”

“Oh.” Hermione was thoroughly deflated. She sat heavily on the stoop and Harry quickly joined her. “I was all worked up over it. Ready to give you a good telling off.”

“It’s all right. After she found out Molly _still_ gave me a talk. I’m pretty sure she’s convinced we can still work it out.”

Hermione laughed. He’d forgotten what a laugh she had. It did something inside of him, pleasing him in a way few people’s laughs could. He’d forgotten about what he’d always done to get that laugh. Doing and saying anything to see her smile. It was like an addict getting their first fix after a long while. Completely perfect and intoxicating. 

“And Ginny’s gay now. That’s something,” she continued.

“It is. Soon as the divorce was final she was going through woman like a…”

She looked at him, those perfectly tended to eyebrows raised.

“It was a lot of woman. Ron about died.”

“Ron’s always been a bit dramatic when it came to his sister’s love life.”

It was too much to actually look at Hermione. He’d squashed all those feelings of longing for his best friend years ago. And she was back and sitting right next to him and he felt like he was about to explode. His body hummed, his heart beating so fast he was afraid it would pop out of his chest and titter across Hermione’s lawn. He kept trying to wipe the smile off of his face. It was causing his cheeks and jaws to ache, but the dull pain was worth it to have Hermione sitting next to him.

“Congratulations on making Head Auror.” And it was like she was immune to it all, unaffected by their reunion. There was that little crooked smile she’d always had when not being overwhelmed by studying and fighting the yearly evil. He must have been staring at her too long because she looked at him again, “What?”

“Nothing.”

She sounded as though she thought he was teasing her, “What?”

“You’re here Hermione. Back home. I missed you.”

The crooked smile faltered a bit, “I missed you too Harry.” She leaned into him, putting her arm around his shoulder and pulling him close so she could rest her head on his shoulder.

They sat like that a while, quiet and happy in each other’s company.

“I’m sorry about your wedding Harry.” It was a quiet apology and one that was surprisingly sincere. “I should have said something sooner. Sent you an owl or paid you a visit, but I didn’t.”

He reached up and took the hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. 

“I never thought I’d see the day I found it easier to talk to Ron then you. It was my fault.”

“It wasn’t Hermione.”

She shifted and withdrew her hand. “No Harry. What I did at your wedding. What I did to you? It was inexcusable.”

He caught her hand again and held it close. Then he made sure he looked her directly in the eye. He’d had a long time to stew on what had happened, and though Ginny and Ron didn’t have details they’d been fully aware of how it had upset him. But if he wanted Hermione back in his life he had to forgive it.

“It’s in the past. I’m just glad your here now.”

Their eyes locked and Harry was surprised he was unable to look away from the warmth and unshed tears he faced. Something seemed to compel him towards her. Something buried deep down. He was terrified of it. More terrified of leaning in then he’d been when facing a group of Death Eaters with only his wand and his wits. Hermione’s face was a mask, her thoughts a cypher.

And then the door opened and saved them both from whatever force that had pulled them together.

“Hermione, Harry, time for dinner.”

He stood up abruptly to face Hermione’s mum. So fast that Hermione’s hand sort of flopped out of his own and hung there of it’s own accord. It was like they’d been caught doing more then just talking and he felt a rush of heat as his cheeks turned red.

“Mrs. Granger,” he said.

Hermione’s mother had always been an amiable woman. Not an overwhelming force of nature like Molly Weasley. Harriet Granger had always been a bit quiet, and pleasant, and thoroughly confused. Here on her own turf she’d traded the confusion at the wizarding world for a healthy dose of confidence. “Hello Harry,” she said, “my grandson has graciously informed me that you’re staying for dinner.” It was a statement but it came out nearly like a question. Harry looked to Hermione for approval.

“Yes,” she offered, “dinner for now, maybe a glass of sherry afterwards.”

He looked at her in surprise, “Sherry? Really?”

“Well of course. Who doesn’t enjoy a glass of sherry after dinner?”

“Many people,” Harriet muttered.

“It’s not my fault you prefer your sherry sweet mum.”

“Harry you simply must help my daughter. She seems to think a dry sherry is better then a sweet.”

Harry looked between the two woman, utterly confused. “I actually” he started, “I’ve never had sherry.”

If both women had weaker constitutions they might have fainted dead away at what Harry said. They shared a look over Harry’s shoulder and then swarmed, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him into the house and towards the kitchen. The whole while a myriad of facts spewed forth from their mouths. Did he know sherry came only from a small region in southern Spain? Did he know that any good Brit preferred the sweet cream sherry? Or that any good sherry drinker should prefer the dry oloroso? By the time they reached the kitchen Harry had learned more about sherry then he’d ever known about any drink, ever. 

Hugo was sitting with a young girl Harry presumed to be Rose, and an older man with grey streaks through his thick brown hair. It had been quite some time since Harry had seen Hermione’s father, and the same seemed to be true for the older man. He looked at Harry curiously, as if trying to put a name to the face he was looking at.

Hermione and Harriet, so consumed with educating a sherry virgin, completely neglected to introduce Harry to the people in the kitchen. He took it upon himself, quietly murmuring a hello to Hugo Sr. and offering the firmest handshake he could muster at the moment. Hermione’s daughter, Rose, watched him with wariness. She must have taken after her father in many respects for though she had the delicate nose and slender physique of her mother, her hair was something not very Granger like at all. It was all blond and shiny looking with not the least bit of curl.

He stuck his hand out expectantly and said, “You must be Rose. I’ve heard a bit about you. I’m your mother’s friend, Harry Potter.”

The girl’s mouth didn’t fall open, her eyebrows didn’t suddenly leap up the length of her forehead, but she still displayed all the telltale signs of a person in shock. It was almost unnaturally subtle how her eyes seemed to widen and her face seemed to go slack. There was no twitch of muscle just a smooth transition from surly teenager to awe struck girl. She took his hand carefully-reverently and then looked to her brother as if to assure herself that it was all really happening.

Hugo had found a large glass of milk in the interim and was drinking it and watching Harry. “Did you really make my mom fly on a hippogriff?” Hugo looked so very much like Hermione that it was still a little alarming to hear him speak with the methodical, deep tones of an American.

“She told you about that?”

“And about the time you all had to face a three headed dog,” Rose said. Her face had tightened a little and looked more normal, but her American accent, like her brother’s, was a bit unsettling.

“That’s all she told you? Nothing about riding thestrals or brokering peace with giants or attending a party for a bunch of decapitated gho—“

Hermione had stopped talking sherry with her mother and came up behind Harry, squeezing his shoulder and leaning over to serve him a glass of pale looking vino. “They don’t need to know about everything I did in school.”

“If they don’t learn it from your friends they’ll just learn it from a teacher at Hogwarts. Those people have memories like an elephant.” Hugo and Hermione’s parents all snickered. Rose, finding it less amusing, stared hard at Harry.

Hermione laughed. It was warm and throaty but with this little tinkling note that made her sound younger then the few lines around her eyes suggested. “That maybe true, but they all also adored me. I’m not particularly worried about Professor McGonagall embarrassing me.”

“Okay maybe not the teachers, but I’m nearly positive Moaning Myrtle knows more then you’d care her to reveal.”

Hermione’s face turned bright red at the very thought of what terribly embarrassing things the ghostly girl might know. “Moaning Myrtle,” Harriet said, “what sort of parent names their child Moaning Myrtle?”

Hugo Sr had just taken a rather large sip of his sherry and his lips pressed together tightly as he enjoyed the drink. “It’s those wizards,” he said before Harry or Hermione could explain, “you’ve heard the names they give their kids. Am I right?” He looked to his daughter and then to Harry, “you both know I’m right. Wizards saddle themselves with the oddest names.”

Hermione took a sip of her sherry and caught Harry’s glance rolling her eyes dramatically. Harry hid his own grin with a long drink from his glass. The sherry was indeed good, and also very dry. “How do you like it,” she asked quietly.

“It’s good,” he responded, just as softly.

Rose stood up abruptly her chair scraping loudly across the kitchen floor and causing everyone to look to her. “Can you all stop getting sloshed on sherry so we can eat already?”

#

After dinner Harry found himself alone in the sitting room with a mantle full of family photographs. Harriet and Hermione’s father were cleaning up the rather large assortment of dirty pans and had actually blanched when Harry offered to help clean up. From the sound of running water Hugo must have been taking a bath. Hermione had gone upstairs after her children to chat with Rose. Though Harry expected most teenagers to be surly, having two of his own, Hermione had apparently been appalled by her daughter’s behavior at dinner. Rose had spent the meal making remarks that Harry would have characterized as snide from someone else’s child. And she’d gone from starstruck around Harry to detesting him.

So Harry stood awkwardly in the small sitting room and tried to bide his time with looking at pictures. There were more then enough of Hermione through the years, and after years of wizard photographs it was very nearly comforting to look at that static images detailing the years of his friend’s life. The earliest photos were amusing. Only a one or two seemed to be of Hermione when they’d gone to school together. The rest were of her and her family. Portraits of pink cheeked little babies and bland looking school photos. His eyes lingered on the larger photos. They were of the entire family, Hermione, Rose, Hugo, and a tall athletic looking blond man. The children’s father, now deceased. Involuntarily he moved closer to the latest family photo. The father looked like a nice man. Even though he stared straight into the camera his hand rested on Hermione’s shoulder in a loving manner, and his smile was laconic and confident. After Ron he was just the sort of man Harry had expected Hermione to end up with.

“That’s a good looking family.”

He turn, startled by Hermione’s voice. She’d crept up softly and stood so close that their bodies touched when he turned. She smiled and stepped back, leaning on her heels to appraise him.

“They are rather smart looking aren’t they,” Harry said. He hoped she hadn’t noticed his little flustered look just before. If she did she said nothing. 

Hermione came closer until she stood shoulder to shoulder with him and stared at the mantle. Her hands were grasped tightly behind her back and she still leaned back on her heels. They stood like that, staring at Hermione’s chronicled past, for maybe longer then was comfortable. Harry kept looking at Hermione surreptitiously, waiting for the pensive look that had gathered on her face to disappear. But her eyes were locked on one of the family photos and her face was screwed up in a look he’d usually only seen her wear when studying.

It was the man she was looking at. Hermione was staring at the husband that had left her.

Harry was an orphan. He’d seen nearly every parental figure he loved killed. He’d watched friends die in the war. He’d even lost his own life. But Harry’s grief had always been private—personal. Standing next to a bereaved widow Harry realized he was at a lost how to comfort her. He knew only his own pain. Other’s was a mystery to him.

If he was serious with himself—willing to examine his own past actions—Harry might admit that his inability to empathize with others’ grief had deeply affected more then one relationship. It was easy to say that Ginny’s sexuality had ended their marriage. It was much more difficult to admit that the trouble had been brewing before that. Harry had watched his wife’s pain at the loss of her brother and been completely ill-equipped to handle it.

But the relationship that had been affected more was his with Hermione. The war had changed his friend. Polished her insides to into the hard nub of a diamond. He’d watched the way her romance with Ron had thrived, and he had looked away when it crumbled. And through it all he and Hermione had grown more distant. The closeness they’d shared in that drafty tent in the Forest of Dean had turned to ether.

And here again was a chance. Hermione was back. The low point of their relationship implicitly forgiven and forgotten by both. Here was a chance for Harry to develop the empathy he so frequently chose to bury. But Hermione was standing there deep in thought staring at a ghost on her wall and Harry didn’t know what to do.

His mind didn’t. Who knows what his heart thought. His hand though. His hand knew what to do. Of it’s own accord, as if some mysterious figure had cast the Imperious curse on that one limb alone, his arm moved and his hand took her hand. Their hands, clasped tightly, fell to the space between them. Harry hoped his palm wasn’t sweaty. Hermione’s hand was cool to the touch and her fingers carried more callouses then was perhaps attractive for a woman.

And that hand felt right in his. He’d missed it.


	10. An Unpleasant Interview

Harry had never been to Azkaban when the dementors had served as guards. He’d heard stories: rumors at school and scattered accounts from Sirius and Hagrid. He’d seen, first hand, the effects that prison had had on it’s prisoners. Happy and warm people had gone all vacant and sallow after only a night. The dark and malicious had all gone mad under the constant watch of the dementors. It had been a dark place. A breeding ground for nastiness and evil.

Now, years after Shacklebot sent the last dementor packing and sacked the mendacious warden, the place was still unpleasant. Though dementors seemed to be almost discarnate at the best of times they still left little traces on the world. Almost like a smell that settled in the back of one’s nose. After more then fifteen years Azkaban still had the taint of the creatures. Their nastiness _lingered_.

But it seemed the prisoners within quickly grew accustomed to the sensation. Those who’d experienced a pre-war Azkaban thrived once free of the dementors’ presence. The newer inmates suffered a little, but they all looked healthy. The haunted stare Harry had long associated with Azkaban prisoners didn’t rest on any of the faces he passed.

Azkaban was different, and as it was full of Death Eaters and criminals Harry couldn’t say it pleased him. But he worked to hide his distaste. One of them had to. He and Ron walked in sync through the claustrophobic corridors of the prison. Ron, never being one to hide his feelings, had a permanent scowl on his face. His narrow shoulders were hunched forward to the point that his robe looked ill-fitted to his lanky frame. Ron was miserable and angry about the their duties at Azkaban.

It was a dangerous mix, but Harry couldn’t fault his friend.

They made their way up a winding set of stairs trailing a man as tall as Ron, but with yellowish skin, mousey brown hair and watery eyes. Azkaban’s new warden, Kai Palomon. At the door to the room they were to meet Rookwood in Palomon stopped and held out his hand expectantly. 

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to take your wands into the room.”

Ron tried not to sound too rude in his tone, “We’re not planning on killing the man.”

“I don’t expect you are, but no wands.”

“Mr. Palomon,” Harry had to be patient—had to be the good cop to the righteous rage standing to his left, “I’m Head Auror. Mr. Weasley is my lieutenant. If you think either of us are giving up our wands—“

“Sir, I don’t care if you’re the Minister himself, either hand over your wands or head back to the portkey.”

They stared at one another—two unbending forces. It was Ron who ended the standoff. In a tremendously jerky fashion he yanked his wand out of his robes and shoved it into Palomon’s hand. “Come on Harry, we need to speak with Rookwood.” Palomon gave Harry a bland little smile when Harry handed over his wand. Then he opened the door and allowed both men into the dank room beyond.

It wasn’t Rookwood’s cell, that was elsewhere in the prison. This was an empty cell that some thoughtful guard had thought to put three chairs in. Rookwood sat in one. His boney wrists and ankles had been chained to the arms and legs of the chair, but it was a small comfort. The chair looked older then the prison itself and weaved and bobbed with every motion Rookwood made.

The man himself looked almost unchanged. His hair was still long and greasy and a dark, patchy beard covered his face. His teeth were unusually clean for a Azkaban prisoner and he watched Harry and Ron with a smile. If he hadn’t been a Death Eater and a murderer his smile might have been charming.

His voice was smooth too, confident and affable sounding. “Not often the Head Auror himself comes to see me,” his eyes dark and deep set moved to stare at Ron, “and you brought a friend too. By the brackish color of your hair I’d guess you were Ron Weasley yes?”

Ron took his chair heavily, the wood creaking beneath him. “We didn’t come here to chat Rookwood.”

“You came here for information Mr. Weasley. By necessity chatting is involved.” Rookwood tried to cross his legs, but the chains halted him.

Ron leaned forward in his seat, the sound filling the small chamber, “I’ve no interest in being cordial with you. Just talking to you stirs something in my guts. I’d rather eat mermaid vomit then be here in this room talking to you, but here we are Rookwood. Having a conversation because you’ve got information we need.”

Rookwood looked to Harry, “Mermaid vomit?”

It was Rookwood’s way. He’d been a spy in the First War. One of Voldemort’s best. It was only in the trials after Voldemort’s death that his complicity in events was revealed. And a good spy knew how to control the conversation, knew how to manipulate. Rookwood had been outed, but not through any significant fault of his own. The former Unspeakable was too clever.

“Ron’s a way with words Rookwood. As do you. A way with words, and people.”

Rookwood’s eyes narrowed.

Harry continued, “it’s people we’re after.”

“Outside of Malfoy every Death Eater who lives is in this prison.” Rookwood spat Malfoy’s name out like a curse, and the venom flowed through the whole sentence.

“But,” Ron said, “it’s not a Death Eater we’re after.”

The anger that had briefly lit up Rookwood’s eyes faded. “Now,” he said, “this is interesting.” He leaned forward in his chair waiting for them to elaborate.

“Your years in the ministry brought you into contact with many people. Foreigners even. Maybe an organization? One with dark underpinnings.”

That smile returned and Rookwood leaned back, “You want me to talk about the Three Wise Men.”

Ron scoffed, “They’ve a name do they?”

“That’s the name people use. Britain’s one of the few places their reach hasn’t traditionally extended, but we could always count on them to do good business.”

“We? The Department of Mysteries or Death Eaters?”

“Both,” he said with barely suppressed glee.

#

The pale looking Mr. Palomon was waiting for them when they exited the chamber. Their wands were gripped tightly in his two fists. He handed them over with more authority then his appearance would suggest. “Find what you need,” he asked.

Ron pocketed his wand, “Yeah,” he said sarcastically. “Man’s a font of information.”

Palomon looked a little confused. “Shall I speak with him.”

Harry gave his wand a little swish before sticking it in his robe, “That won’t be necessary, but we may need to speak with him further. Keep an eye on him?”

The warden nodded and waved two guards over. The guards came running and disappeared into the room where Rookwood was held. “It won’t be a problem sirs.” He followed the guards.

Ron, free of Rookwood’s presence, was already halfway down the stairs they’d come up earlier. Harry had to jog to catch up to him. He opened his mouth to say something but Ron quickened his pace. With no other recourse Harry followed. 

They passed by a hall full of less dangerous prisoners where lunch was being served. It sounded almost like the Great Hall back at Hogwarts. There was the tinkling of forks against plates and laughter on the air. The amiable Rookwood, the happy lunchroom of Death Eaters and dark wizards. It was too much for Ron to bear it seemed. His feet beat against the smooth stone of the floor and he shoved past guards and chained prisoners alike quickly and roughly making his way to the portkey. Harry followed as best he could, too concerned with keeping pace with Ron to be angry with the pleasant treatment of murderers.

The last few steps to the portkey Harry had to take at a run. He threw himself at the wide silver ring that served as a gateway between Azkaban and the Ministry. Ron didn’t even notice.

#

Harry was a brilliant wizard. One of the best to come out of Hogwarts in a century. He was a bogeyman to dark wizards and an object of desire for more then one witch, but even after years of use he wasn’t too good with sticking a portkey landing.

It happened every time. His fingers brushed against the enchanted object and he felt the pull at his navel, and he saw Cedric pale and lifeless in the grass. As other witches and wizards quickly righted themselves and nailed the landing with ease Harry flailed and faltered before plummeting to the ground with a smack.

Most who witnessed it were courteous enough not to mention it. _Most_. Ron found it hilarious. Harry could have told him why it was so difficult but the idea of mentioning Cedric made him queasy. 

When Harry face planted into the polished floor of the Ministry he was prepared for a bit of a laugh from Ron. It didn’t come. After Harry repaired his glasses and sat up he found that Ron was already out of the room and headed for the surface.

Ron’s broody ways were starting to get ridiculous. Harry picked himself up and ran after Ron. “Hey! Git!” A few people looked but ducked their heads when they saw it was the Head Auror using names. Ron was not one of the lookie loos. He kept going. “I’m talking to you!” Harry grabbed Ron’s hand and spun him around.

“Harry,” Ron said through gritted teeth, “I just had to go and be cordial to the man that murdered my brother. I’d really like to call my wife and clear my head and get the smell of Azkaban out my nose. All right with you?” The last bit was nearly shouted at Harry.

He took a step back and held his hands up in surrender. “Fine. That’s fine Ron. I’ll go to Mysteries alone yeah?”

Ron scowled, “Yeah.”

Another man might have taken Ron off the case. Asking him to deal with Rookwood was a bit much, and with Hermione’s sudden appearance and Maggie’s pregnancy Ron clearly had a lot on his mind. Experience had taught Harry that keeping busy was the best course of action when that much was on your mind, but maybe a little space was a good thing. After all they’d just quarreled like a married couple in the middle of the Ministry.

A bit of grey paper folded into the shape of the bird flew towards Harry and paused to hover in front of his face. He snatched it out of the air and was pleased to see it was a note from the Department of Mysteries. Rookwood’s mention of the department had put it in Harry’s sight. Just waltzing in and asking for information never got him anything there, having an invitation made his job quite a bit easier.

Tucking the memo into his robe he slid into a queue for the lift which he then took down to ninth level. His ears popped as the lift quickly descended past floor after floor of more traditional offices. It came to a rather gentle halt. He didn’t even sway as it stopped at the Department of Mysteries. The tile was the same dark green tile that lined the other walls at the Ministry, but the lone door at the end of the hall had a more sinister appeal. It was painted as black as night and unlike every other door in the Ministry it appeared to be made of slate rather then wood. There was no knob on the door just a brass plate. He brushed his hand against the metal and the door disappeared into the wall. The room beyond had changed little over the years. It was still circular with fast moving doors meant to rotate after use.

Dean Thomas stood at the center of the room looking extraordinarily bored. His eyes lit up at the sight of Harry and he moved forward to clasp Harry’s hand before taking the shorter man into a friendly embrace.

“Harry! Good seeing you mate. Ron didn’t come?”

“Auror business.”

“Right. Shall we?”

The walls stopped spinning and Dean stepped through one then turned to hold it open for Harry. As an Unspeakable Dean didn’t dress any different then the average wizard and the years had been good to the man. He’d aged little since school. Ron had once said it was because of the odd concoctions manufactured by his wife, Luna. 

He led Harry past a few more doors of similar fashion to the previous. All made of slate and lacking handles or hinges. The chat was idle and what was to be suspected of old dorm mates. Bits about Seamus’s latest wife and Luna’s latest Quibbler article. Harry offered a few anecdotes about Ginny knowing Dean would be amused. They’d run into each other at one of her matches recently and so the conversation couldn’t sustain itself on familial news alone.

Fortunately they came to their destination before the lull could be too apparent. Dean tapped his wand against the brass plate on the door and said something in a language that sounded like snot in one’s throat. The door slid into the wall with nary a whisper and Dean tapped another plate inside to illuminate the room.

And it illuminated with flourish. White-blue flames spread across the ceiling setting floating lanterns aflame with a gentle whoosh. The stark light revealed a familiar piece of evidence propped up on a metal frame at the center of the room. It was the remnants of the bar top from the other night. What was intact was twisted and curled unnaturally. The shattered bits had been pressed together in some kind of translucent putty and wobbled about on their metal legs.

He’s heard that Unspeakables had snatched the bar up after the attack and it made sense. Wizards couldn’t usually go about manipulating huge objects with a touch. But Harry hadn’t expected one to share the bar or the findings with the Aurors. Unspeakables didn’t generally care about crime.

Harry approached the evidence and ran his fingers across the surface. “Does your boss know you’re showing me this?”

“Who do you think asked me to contact you?”

“Not normal for your lot Dean. What’s going on?”

“We’re interested in speaking with whoever did this.”

“So are we,” Harry muttered.

“Right. So maybe you’ll let us give you a bit of information about the fellow and when you bring him in you’ll give us a day with him before whisking him off to Azkaban?”

“I can’t make that sort of promise Dean.”

Dean held his hands up defensively, “No of course not. Nothing official.”

“Right,” Harry looked to the bar. He crept closer until he could reach out and touch it. Beneath his hands it felt quite ordinary. He’d expected the push and pull of magic or the tingle that a wand always provided. But it was just a long bit of wood.

“It’s kind of amazing what he did,” Dean said, “wood’s always been a bit more sensitive to magic then other materials. It’s why we use it in our wands.”

“But people don’t go transfiguring their wands.”

“No, because our wands also have a core. This guy kind of used the bar as a wand and as an object.”

“That’s possible?”

“It would take loads of concentration.”

“He did it in a matter of seconds.”

“And power. This isn’t an ordinary wizard Harry.”

“I gathered that. So far you haven’t actually told me anything I didn’t already know, Dean.”

Dean grinned, “Because I haven’t shown you everything.”

Dean pulled his wand out and pointed to a point on the bar. It was a bit of the bar that had been closer to the wall and where the wizard had been standing when he started transfiguring. As such it hadn’t distorted quite like the rest. Dean gave his wand a swish and a perfectly round section of the bar lifted out and away from the rest. It was actually a cross section.

Harry stepped closer and was surprised to see a brown, chalky material just under the surface of the bar. A strand of hair stuck out of the chalk. “What—?”

“We were scanning the thing when we found this bit, about a foot long, imbedded in the bar. It’s unicorn hair. Wrapped up in some kind of wood pulp. It’s a wand Harry, or at least a poor facsimile of one. I’d heard of some pub owners doing something like this. A way of protection.”

“But our dark wizard knew where it was. Went right for it when we came in.”

“We sent out a few Unspeakables to interview the owner.” Harry frowned. Dean continued, “The guy didn’t know anything about our wizard. Hadn’t told a soul about the bar wand.”

It was Dean’s tone that led Harry to believe him. Unspeakables put their research above all else, including the rights of their fellow wizards. More then one man had been forced to take Veritaserum without warning or counsel. Unspeakeables claimed it was all in pursuit of truth and the welfare of the nation, but Harry, who spent his life hunting the darkest and foulest wizards alive, felt a little uneasy at his counterpart’s willful contravening of wizards and witches’ rights.

“So how’d the wizard know where the wand was,” he asked.

Dean shrugged his narrow shoulders, “Lucky guess? Maybe he did a bit of Legilimency before you got there?”

Harry resisted a groan. Things he did not need, a wizard skilled at transfiguration, wandless magic and Legilimency. Next he’d find out the fellow could turn into a crow at will and speak to snakes. 

“So we’ve got a super wizard on our hands?”

“You could always check the muggle hotels Harry. Look for anyone under the name of Clark Kent or Bruce Wayne.”

“Or Peter Parker.”

“I forgot that one. Did you see the movie?”

Harry nodded, “First muggle film I ever took Ginny to see. I thought she’d like it—with the girl being a red head and all? But she wasn’t too impressed.”

“Maybe because the portraits in her house all talk back?”

“What about Luna? Ever take her to the movies?”

“Sure. She thinks they’re quaint.”

“Witches,” they said as one, grinning at the old joke.

A lull fell. Dean looked around the room a bit awkwardly.

Harry sighed, it was now or never. “Say Dean? You ever heard of a lot called the Three Wise Men?”

Dean grinned, “Well sure Harry. Frankincense and myrrh and gold.”

He shook his head and leveled Dean with a gaze, hoping that he could convey with a look the seriousness of his line of questioning. “I’m thinking of a different sort of wise men.”

Dean didn’t say anything immediately, but the way his face turned to stone was proof enough Harry had touched on something. Then Dean went and flat out lied, “Afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about mate.”

“They’re old men. Maybe not even. Maybe they’re women or goblins or freed house elves.”

“Harry…”

“And I think your lot has heard of them before.”

Dean shook his head wearily. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, and I don’t know who’s been telling you it, but the Three Wise Men aren’t real. Someone’s sending you on a snipe hunt.”

“This isn—“

“Ginny’s got a game tonight right?”

A less savvy wizard would have been thrown by the sudden change in topic. “It’s a whole week of exhibition games celebrating the new pitch.”

“Yeah, she sent Luna and I tickets. You going?”

“Taking Lily.”

“Ten galleons on the Harpies?”

“I could take that bet. Ginny’s on a bit of a dry spell with the women. Wrecks her game.”

“Oh come on Harry, don’t tell me that.”

“Well I wouldn’t want you to lose ten whole Galleons. Don’t you have mouths to feed?”

“We’ll settle this at the game Potter. And I’ll be ten Galleons richer.”

They chatted about quidditch for a few more minutes before Harry headed back to his office. Traveling through the department of Mysteries was easier when leaving then when arriving. The place knew where he needed to be led and the doors opened before he could reach them. The lift at the end of the hallway was empty but gradually filled up as it made it’s way towards his own office. Witches and wizards nodded at Harry in recognition and he gave out a few week smiles to keep people from gossiping.

Ron had cooled down and was hard at work at his desk. His quill moved quickly across the parchment in front of him and he wrote so swiftly that the ink didn’t have a chance to drip when the quill moved from inkpot to parchment and back again. He glanced up at Harry. Their eyes met and the uneasiness between them earlier evaporated. It was always that way with Ron. He’d spur himself into a bit of a tiff and then forget all about it after a few hours. But there was an implicit apology in his eyes this time. Harry didn’t need to say it, the case and Hermione had them both acting more emotional then normal. 

He went around to his own desk and sat down, ready for a good long brood. Dean knew all about the Three Wise Men and was now expecting Harry to meet him at a quidditch match to discuss it. A quidditch match far from the intrusive walls of the Department of Mysteries. Which meant the Unspeakables were still very much involved with this curious little organization.

And there was their dark wizard to consider. A man with ties to an ancient order of evil wizards spread across every continent. Someone who at first glance appeared to be near super human, but Dean had shown that it had been partially an illusion. Hopefully the evidence pointing towards Legilimency was an illusion too. Harry had gotten a little better with Occulemency, but he’d never be a Snape or a Malfoy, and Ron didn’t hide his thoughts as much as blast them out like a loudspeaker. Of the Aurors he had at his disposal he and Ron were the absolute worst to go up against a Legilimens.

Harry had to hope that the man was like a magician, all misdirection.

He had to hope that because otherwise they were well and truly buggered.


	11. Best Laid Plans

Somehow Sarah had managed to choose a warehouse in one of the seediest districts in London. Hermione was in her father’s car and didn’t relish the idea of leaving it out on the street. The kids, clearly truant from school, made their way over the bridge and into the estate where they lived. The bridge was just over a tributary of the Thames and the water was a bit more still then the general river. The stagnant smell moved through the vents of the car and straight up Hermione’s nose.

She sneezed involuntarily and ducked down in her seat a bit. Another small group of kids came out of what looked to be a pub and headed onto the bridge. They pushed and jostled each other and laughed too loudly. So definitely a pub, and it was barely noon.

Hermione looked to the building her car was parked in front of. It was a warehouse that had seen better days, as had the area it was located in. The other warehouses it was nestled between all had a bit of activity. Pasty fellows with penchants for gruddy undershirts lolled about outside smoking and spitting. A boat was docked behind one of the warehouses and Hermione could just make out the men unloading stores from the cargo holds.

Her own warehouse, purchased by her erstwhile assistant, sat empty. Soon, if all went right, boats would be coming and going; exporting butterbeer and importing gillyweed and other difficult to come by items. She still had to arrange a meeting with George to see about handling the shipping for his products. Ron had mentioned his need of an honest exporter who could manage all the forms. Apparently they were really “doing his head in.” Hermione had only seen a few photos Sarah had owled over the night before, but she was already working out how she’d arrange things inside. Where the offices would go and where the portkeys would be installed. She was itching to get started on the project.

Only Sarah hadn’t arrived with the keys yet. Hermione could have just gone and opened the door with her wand, but she preferred staying in her warm car with her hot cup of coffee. She took a sip and winced. It was bitter with the taste of burned beans. She’d have to remember skipping that particular coffee shop in the future or add considerably more milk to her drink.

Then there was some tapping to take her mind of the coffee. Three times quickly and then a long steady series of taps. She turned to see Sarah leaning against her window tapping her finger and steaming the glass with her breath. Hermione took a big sip of her coffee and settled it in the coffee holder then opened the door.

“I was beginning to think you’d gone back to America,” she said as she got out of the car.

“I thought about it. Bloody cold here.” Sarah hugged herself to reinforce her statement, though it was hardly necessary.

“Miss it already?”

“South Africa I miss. Glad to be out of America actually. People kept thinking I was a mentally deficient Brit.” Sarah’s accent was extraordinarily strong. She’d grown up speaking Afrikaans and only spoke English outside of the home. She’s been recruited by their employer while working as a bodyguard in Johannesburg and been placed under Hermione. As strangers in a strange land the two women had taken an immediate shine to one another and grown close. Sarah had been the first person Hermione told about her planned move to England. She’d been a little surprised when Sarah offered to come with her. “You’ll need protection from all the paparazzi,” she’d said. 

She was Hermione’s height and had similarly curly hair, but where Hermione was cursed with the pale skin of a native Brit, Sarah had a warmer skin tone and darkened easily. Her wide mouth and full lips were always quick to pull into a smile, but her big, brown eyes were too shrewd to be as affable. She was currently decked out in enough layers that she looked as though she could barely bend her arms. They hung stiffly at her side beneath the big black wool overcoat and purple scarf and gloves she was wearing. Sarah hopped from said to side trying to stay warm. 

Hermione locked her car and followed Sarah into the building. The door stuck and only opened when both women gave it a good yank. Inside there was only darkness and dust. Sarah pulled her scarf up over her nose and used her wand to illuminate the space. “The location’s shit, but the space is enormous, and off the beaten path.”

Hermione pulled out her own wand and set it to work opening the doors out onto the loading docks, “it’s also in a seedy part of town Sarah. Security’s going to be a nightmare.”

“Nah, few good charms and wards and we’ll be golden.”

“Yeah, single mom now, I can’t spend the next twelve hours putting up the charms we need.”

Sarah had created a small wind spell and was moving it about the room driving the dust towards the outside. “How are the kids doing,” she asked over her shoulder.

A rat lurched out of some refuse in a corner and made a break for the cold outside. Hermione caught it with her wand and gave it a boost sending it skittering across the polished cement floor and through the cloud of dust Sarah had created. “Angry. Quiet. Though they got in a fight the other day. It was actually a relief. They’d been so nice to each other. Helpful even.”

“That’s not natural.”

“That’s what John always said. He and his sister would fight like cats and dogs. She came over for Easter two years ago and it ended up with him sitting on top of her head.”

Sarah laughed and they both returned to their cleaning.

It was the first time she’d said his name in over a week. John. She’d found some of his things the night before while looking for a night shirt. It had been a sweatshirt of his and one of the only bits of clothing she’d kept. Everything else had been packed up and sent off to Goodwill in the first weeks. The shirt had been tucked between some of Hermione’s own workout clothes. It was threadbare and had been too big for even John, but it had been warm and soft.

She was surprised to find it didn’t really smell like him when she’d held it to her nose. It had smelled like the both of them and like clean sheets. In a fit of self indulgent widowhood she’d stripped off her own shirt and bra and pulled the sweatshirt on and the wallowed in her bed. She’d pulled the hood down till it nearly covered her whole face and she’d had a good cathartic cry.

And now, twelve hours later, John was on her mind. It was funny, at first there’d just been this oppressive sense of loss. Then she’d been so angry she’d nearly hurt a man. Depression. Tears. Shouting. Sleeping all hours. She’d done it all. Mourning had grown _exhausting_. She didn’t expect to see him around every corner anymore. Now she just missed having that person there to talk to at night. She missed the moments they’d shared, rather then the moments they never would. 

When the cleaning was done Hermione set to exploring the warehouse while Sarah made the phone calls necessary to bring electricity and internet to the building. It was a huge open space with a set of offices on stilts near the loading docks by the river and a toilet hidden behind some cheap aluminum siding up near the doors to the street. Huge vents hovered over head ready to provide heat and lights sprang out of the places where the ventilation was not. Thick layers of dust were visible on top of the lights and vents. She’d need to get someone up there on a broom to deal with all of that.

There were no windows in the place either. Which was a problem. She wasn’t about to leave the doors all open for the comings and goings of owls. They’d need to build a little owlery to handle the traffic.

But overall the place was suitable for their purposes.

With things as clean as they could manage the women parted ways—each with a small list of things to do before they met again. Hermione was glad to have her old assistant in London. Sarah was thoroughly self-sufficient and competent. She’d rarely worked with someone she could as readily leave to their own devices.

“You know,” Sarah said, watching Hermione climb into her car, “there’s one thing I appreciate about England.”

“The rain? The muck?”

“It’s so small. I can apparate just about everywhere I need to be.”

Hermione eyed her young assistant, “Just don’t go apparating into the middle of Picadilly Circus alright? We don’t need the Ministry picking you up for violating secrecy statutes.”

Sarah lazily saluted her, “Aye aye captain. No apparating and no broom races up the Thames. I’ll be good.”

“And watch the rest of the crew?”

“You make it sound like they’re five Hermione.”

“That whole lot is American born and raised. They handle magic a bit differently here and I need them to be low key.”

Sarah smiled and said softly, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep them all out of trouble.”

Hermione opened her mouth to give another warning and then promptly closed it. She smiled sheepishly at her assistant. “I better be off before I turn into my mother.”

Sarah laughed and the two women parted ways.

#

Her father had told her that since she’d appropriated his car she could pick up her _own_ child from school. So Hermione made the drive to the school and leaned against her car with an umbrella so she’d look like every other parent and nanny waiting for school to get out. The biting chill of the morning had given way to a hazy coolness that afternoon. The sky overhead was a gray and bright with light refracted off the fine mist that fell quietly to the ground. It wasn’t wet enough to be rain, but it wasn’t dry enough to be a simple fog. 

Rivulets of water ran down the glass and metal exteriors of the car and over the bright umbrellas everyone held. Hermione regretted not wearing her boots that day for the mist had already soaked straight through the cloth ballet flats she wore. She looked forward to getting home and taking a hot shower and then sitting in front of the fire reading the large stack of journals that had built up over the last few months. 

At last kids slowly started to trickle out of the building. They were all tightly wrapped up in coats and boots and their little rubber clad feet all squeaked noisily on the pavement as they ran out of the building. Hermione soon caught site of her son’s curly hair. Like her own, the humidity had had a disastrous effect on his head and the poor boy had a big poof of brown hair that frizzed out in all directions. She smiled affectionately when he caught sight of her and he ran up dragging a poor little red headed girl in tow.

“Mom! You came!” He actually sounded excited to see his mother. 

She switched her umbrella to her left hand and reached out to give her son a one armed squeeze with her right. “I did come. Who’s your friend?”

He held up his and the girl’s clasped hands as proof of their friendship. “This is Lily. She’s a witch!”

If possible Hermione’s eyebrows would have shot straight past her forehead and disappeared somewhere in her hairline. She directed her attention to the young girl who stared at her with wide eyes. The girl then jerked Hugo’s arm, “I didn’t say I was a witch,” she said in a whisper too loud to really be called that.

“Yes you did,” he responded in the same attempt at whispering. 

“That’s a secret.”

“My mom’s a witch. She doesn’t care.”

Hermione clasped her son’s shoulder tightly, “And that’s enough of that. Lily is someone here to pick you up?”

She nodded eagerly, “Yes ma’am. My dad’s here.”

She pointed across the parking lot to a soddened looking Harry Potter. Of course. Her son would naturally befriend Harry Potter’s youngest. That was the way the world operated. Not in chances but in absurd coincidences. She looked back down at the girl. “So you really are a witch then?”

Lily’s mouth dropped open in a confusion, “How,” she started.

Hermione waved over in Harry’s direction. “I went to school with your dad.”

Hugo craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the man they were taking about, when he saw Harry his face brightened, he turned back to Lily. “He ate at our house. That’s your dad?”

The girl was now very confused and let herself be dragged in her father’s direction by Hugo—who ran towards Harry with a wave and a smile. Hermione followed the two at a distance. Harry realized belatedly that he actually knew both of the children rushing towards him and stood up a little straighter.

“Well this is a surprise,” he said warmly. Hugo stopped short and smiled. 

“Hello Harry. I didn’t know Lily was your daughter. We’re best friends.”

Lily rolled her eyes and snatched her hand back. “Dad this is Hugo.”

“I’ve met Hugo. How’re you doing?”

“Good. Can Lily stay over?”

“I—“

Harry then looked around and saw Hermione a few paces behind the children. They shared a moment and Hermione shook her head. 

“I don’t think so,” Harry said, “you’ve both got school tomorrow. And Lily’s got to go to her mom’s game tonight.”

“Game?”

“My mom’s a Chaser for the Harpies.”

“Your mom plays Quidditch,” Hugo shouted. He had a tendency to get excited about Quidditch. He wasn’t nearly as good as his sister on a broom but he was a bigger fan of the sport and had collected player cards like most of his friends had collected baseball and game cards.

“My mom’s the best player on the team!”

Hermione saw the look on Harry’s face and tried to get out a word to stop him, but Harry was too fast, “You and your mom should come to the game.” His green eyes looked up over the frames of his glasses at her. “Tickets wouldn’t be a problem, you can bring Rose too.”

“Harry I…”

“Mom we have to go.”

“Yeah mom, you have to go,” Harry said, his voice was deeper but his tone was a perfect mimicry of Hugo’s.

Hermione desperately wanted to say no. She had journals to read by the fire, and a warehouse to whip into shape and more paperwork then should be permitted. And Rose would be heading to Hogwarts in only a few days and her parents would be awfully cross with her taking the kids out on a school night. It was a terrible plan.

And yet she still said yes.


	12. Quidditch Games Are Good For A Chat

“But why did I have to come?”

Hermione wondered the same thing. Her oldest was hugging herself for warmth and scowling in a manner that only a teenager could achieve with any effectiveness. Hermione would have thought Rose would be delighted to go to her first real professional Quidditch match, but instead she’d been a brat all the way there.

Hugo, sensing his sister’s misery, was trying to be as exuberant as possible and Hermione was a tad worried when she realized he was managing to irritate Rose _and_ herself. It was the little bounce he did. And the little chant. Mainly it was the chant. She’d asked him three times to stop shouting the name of Ginny’s team, but Hugo persisted. The child’s selective hearing ability was always remarkable to behold.

The only reason she hadn’t lost her temper was that it seemed to make her daughter even more miserable, and if Rose wanted to be bratty then she was more then willing to let Hugo be bratty right back. It wasn’t the best action she’d ever taken as a mother.

She tried to drown out the chanting and the whining and stood on tip toes in the hopes that she’d catch a glimpse of Harry’s dark hair. The stadium looked to be packed and more people were brushing past her and her children. She felt a shift in the air pressure to her right and turned to find Harry standing there looking a little breathless with Lily firmly in hand.

“Hiya,” he said cheerily. His cheeks were bright red from either the cold or the jog he’d just finished.

“Harry,” she looked to the girl, “Lily. Did you just apparate?”

“Didn’t want to be late. Besides Lily loves to do ride alongs.”

“It makes my ears pop,” she admitted. “Who’s that?”

“This is my daughter, Rose.”

Rose nodded at them both and then stamped her feet in a terrible attempt to look like she was trying to get warm.

Harry raised an eyebrow and looked from mother to daughter curiously, but Hermione shook her head and he held back on any question he wanted to ask.

Hugo hadn’t stopped chanting “Holyhead Harpies.” He had, however, taken both of Lily’s hands and was swinging them side to side in time with his chanting. It was probably an attempt to get Lily to share in his Quidditch induced fervor but it looked like it irritated her as much as it did Hermione and Rose.

“He all right,” Harry asked a little under his breath.

Lily had pulled her hands away from Hugo. Hugo, not to be dissuaded from his new pre-game ritual, just raised his little fists in the air and continued chanting. Hermione stared at him, “I don’t think he’ll ever be right again.”

“He was never right to begin with,” Rose muttered.

Harry looked from mother to daughter again, “Well, aren’t you a surly lot.” Neither woman or girl responded. Harry scooted forward suddenly and snatched Hugo up and flipped him over his shoulder. Hugo squealed in delight. “Come on boy, let’s get you into your first real life professional Quidditch match!”

Hugo cheered. Harry cheered. Then the chanting went up again and Harry joined in. Rose stamped her feet again, louder this time and Hermione just stared at the boy and the man as they walked into the stadium chanting like idiots.

“Mrs. Thomas?”

She looked down to find Lily looking up at her with a pair of startling green eyes.

“My mom says it’s just the boys in **our** family that are idiots about Quidditch. That’s not true is it?”

 

#

They were halfway through the match and Hermione’s feet were starting to fall asleep. As soon as the snitch was released the crowd went to their feet and never bothered to sit down again. Hugo and Lily had made their way to the bottom of the box and were talking rather animatedly, pointing and gesturing and insuring that they’d crash as soon as the heads hit the pillow later that night.

Rose, being too mature for the idiocy that was her brother stayed with her mother and was now standing between her and Harry and scowling. If Harry noticed Rose’s displeasure he didn’t mention it. Though he did have a teenager or two of his own. Was probably used to them by now.

Ginny soared by overhead with the Quaffle clutched beneath her arm. She was flying fast, but still had time to do a little spin on her broom as she raced past Lily and Hugo. Both kids let out a whoop and hugged each other out of sheer joy.

Beside her Rose snorted.

“Not a Quidditch fan,” Harry asked. He was still watching the match, hadn’t even turned his head and he sounded jovial enough but something about his question, and about the slight edge to his tone had Hermione turning to watch them instead of the match.

Rose shrugged, “It’s fun enough, but Hugo’s being such a kid.”

“He’s not even ten. I’d think he’s allowed.”

Her daughter narrowed her eyes at Hermione’s old friend. She recognized that look, and she now recognized that odd tone to Harry’s voice. Harry, and Ron too for that matter, had always been stubborn and protective. That protectiveness extended to friends and family and, naturally, Quidditch. Her daughter, on the other hand, was surly and at her current stage of development one of the most sensitive people she’d ever known. 

And here they were calmly going about and sending each other into a bit of a tiff.

This was her daughter and her best friend, and when forced to choose she’d choose her daughter in a heartbeat. But further below Hugo was laughing and smiling more genuinely then he had in months and that was the doing of Harry and his daughter. It could never be as easy as simply **choosing** a sister over a brother or a child over a friend. It had to be complicated. Had to require a delicate hand and patiences. 

She could have made this easier. Could have told Rose she was staying home. She’d known after dinner that the girl wasn’t too fond of Harry. But Rose loved Quidditch so she’d brought her. 

Which begged the question of why she hadn’t thought to bring another buffer. Not her parents of course, but Ron or Sarah. Sarah! The perfect choice. The South African witch and Rose got along well enough. It had been Rose, not Hermione, who finally weaned Sarah off her training broom and onto an adult broom. That would have been perfect.

It also would have required forethought, something that seemed to be wholly absent from Hermione’s mind when things concerned Harry now. And that was a thought she had no desire to pursue while soaking wet at a Quidditch match near the man and her volatile daughter.

“Harry!”

All three turned at the shout. It took Hermione a moment to recognize Dean Thomas. He’d grown so tall! And distinguished. And that haggard look that had haunted him after the war was gone. Instead he was happy looking with a tinge of serenity that she suspected came from the woman on his arm.

Luna Lovegood had blossomed in the intervening years. Another old friend who proved that the awkwardness of adolescence was just a phase to live through. She still had that dreamy look in her eye but there was a sharp professionalism to the way she dressed and a wryness to her smile.

And she, the editor of the _Quibbler_ , was the first one to notice Hermione. She smiled warmly and squeezed Dean’s hand before nodding in Hermione’s direction.

Hermione wasn’t especially religious. She’d never put a lot of stock in the Church and less so after the war, but at that moment she sent a prayer of thanks up to whatever high being did exist for bringing her some sort of relief.

 

#

“So you and Harry are dating now?”

Hermione didn’t _quite_ squeak. Rose was out of earshot down at the foot of the stands with Hugo and Lily and Harry and Dean had gone to get snacks. So it was just Hermione and Luna, a woman incapable of asking appropriate questions.

“I—why would you think that?”

“You’re here, together.”

“With our children. Who are friends.”

Luna hummed in thought. “So you aren’t dating,” she finally asked.

Hermione felt eye contact was important here. She turned her head to catch Luna’s gaze. “No,” she said as emphatically as she could without being _too_ emphatic, “we are not.”

Luna nodded and turned back to watch the game, “Pity. I’ve always thought you should.”

“You and half the wizarding world,” Hermione muttered. 

“Did you ever think of it? Before Ron?”

On the field Ginny was dodging between Bludgers with the Quaffle under her arm. Her hair was plastered to her scalp by the combination of sweat, mist, and broom breeze.  She looked focused, but the Quidditch pitch had always seemed to be the place where Ginny Weasley felt most at home. It had never been at the Burrow or even in the shy looks shared with Harry.

“There was never time,” she said, “besides Ron…” he’d been wonderful and engaging and he’d loved her _so_ much. It was like those movies she’d always watched nestled between her parents on the couch. The arguing and the idea that he thought she was special had warmed her up. And Harry. Harry had had Cho Chang, and Ginny, and the weight of the world on his back. “Ron was perfect,” she finally said.

“And now he’s married to a muggle.” She wasn’t the only one that found shelter from the wizarding world in the arms of a muggle. She thought about saying as much but that would have meant talking about John more and what she absolutely didn’t want to do was talk about John. Not while she stood in the stands watching a Quidditch match with her kids.

Harry and Dean soon returned with what looked like a bucket of Ever Popping Popcorn. A treat Hermione knew for a fact Harry had always hated. Something about corn kernels irritated him beyond means. Maybe that was why he was scowling. And he was definitely scowling. But Dean didn’t seem oblivious. He looked…awkward.

“They must have had a row,” Luna said in that dreamy tone of hers. 

Before they were quite back to Luna and Hermione Harry paused and caught Dean by the arm. He said something. It was hushed and quick and positively forceful. And Dean, usually a happy sort of fellow, turned to stone. The only movement was a firm shake of his head. He left Harry and hopped up the stairs to them.

Luna reached out to sooth her husband. He nodded to Hermione, “Afraid we’ve got to leave. It was good seeing you again Hermione.”

She nodded, “You too Dean. Luna.”

Luna brushed a hand across Hermione’s arm as a farewell and they walked past Harry who was climbing the stairs with that scowl still smeared across his face.

“You and Dean disliking each other,” she asked as soon as soon as he was in earshot, “how recent is that?”

He stared at her. Then the scowl turned into a blank look. “What?”

Hermione took the popcorn from him and popped a few kernels into her mouth. “You two go off for snacks and come back practically ready to kill each other. I thought Ron was the only man who could get you that riled.”

“It was work stuff. He gave me a bit of news I wasn’t keen on getting.”

“Everything all right?”

He shook his head, “it’s not important Hermione.” She hoped her long stare was enough for him to realize she wasn’t letting it go. “Really,” he insisted, “it’s work stuff that Ron and I will deal with tomorrow.”

Out on the pitch Ginny seemed to have every Bludger and Beater on her tail. She swerved between the balls as the Beaters leaned into their brooms to pick up speed.

“Wow,” Harry said, attempting to defer the conversation, “they’ve really got it in for Ginny.”

The Beaters were just behind Ginny now and had set up a rhythm with the Bludgers so that one always seemed to be flying at Ginny’s head. She was constantly ducking and the movement was slowing her broom down.

“Where’s her team,” Harry muttered, “come on,” he shouted when one Bludger seemed to graze the top of her head.

“Harry,” Hermione reached out to grasp his arm. It was taunt beneath her fingers. Solid and full of unspent energy.

“Well they’re letting her get massacred out there,” he argued.

Down the field the other team’s Chasers were doing some amazing broom work and keeping Ginny’s fellow Chaser and Beaters from helping her out.

It was crazy enough that even Hermione, a self-avowed Quidditch neophyte, could say “this can’t be legal.”

At the bottom of the stands Lily and Hugo were hugging the railing and watching with wide eyes. Rose had stepped in-between them and had an arm around each child’s shoulder. She turned back to her mom.

“Harry,” Hermione said, never taking her eyes off her daughter, “the kids.”

At some point her hand had drifted down his arm and was now clasped firmly within his own. He squeezed it. “Maybe we should—“

Then there was a sound like a melon hitting pavement and Ginny went tumbling from her broom.

Just above her Rose noticed her mother holding hands with Harry and her normally bright face darkened.

Not a good night.


	13. Can't Get No Sleep

Ginny still hadn’t gotten around to buying the telly she’d assured Harry she was going to get, so he settled for listening to some music on the wireless. He was sitting in her spacious and modern kitchen with a cup of steaming tea in front of him. From his spot in the kitchen he could see the foot of the stairs up to the bedrooms and the front door down past the living room. That was the Auror part of him thinking that. Not the ex-husband stuck babysitting his concussed ex-wife.

He’d finally managed to get Lily to sleep thirty minutes earlier after a night of assuring her her mother would be fine and what felt like an hour of her talking about how great Hugo and Hermione and Rose were. Immediately after the accident Harry had gone back to check on Ginny while Hermione had watched the children. When he came out with the healer and a woozy Ginny much later the stands were empty, Rose was still looking surly and Lily and Hugo were using Hermione’s lap for pillows and napping.

Hermione had offered to take Lily for the night, or come over and help see her to bed but Harry had refused. Hermione had her own kids to raise and her own life to lead. She didn’t need to be staying up all hours to nursemaid his family. 

The errant ex-wife was in her own bedroom sleeping off a potion to help with the concussion. With the exception of the wireless the house was quiet.

Harry sipped his tea and prayed the bit of caffeine in it would keep him awake a little longer. Earlier when the team’s healer had helped him put Ginny to bed he’d thought about asking for a pick me up to make it through the night. He didn’t need a mirror to know there were dark circles under his eyes. He had only to close his eyes to feel the heavy pull of slumber.

But if he’d taken a pick me up he’d have been stuck away for hours and full of the odd jitters that kept his eyes open despite an overwhelming need to sleep. He’d nearly grown addicted to supplements back when he’d been testing for his Auror promotion. That had been years ago, when Ginny had found a way to disappear every night for “work” and come home smelling like Harrod’s perfume counter.

They’d been such an easy couple then. A golden couple. Untouchable. With their three kids and their posh home and their perfect smiles. They’d been the envy of the wizarding world. Only Harry was a workaholic and would be so until the day he died, and Ginny had an almost inhuman desire for quim.  Men fresh out of Azkaban weren’t as randy as his ex-wife.

And reminding himself that the ill woman upstairs had slept with half the women in the wizarding world was a terribly good idea. That had never led to a bit of heartache and remorse. No, especially when he could stare at the pictures of the children she had stuck to the fridge. James and Albus and Lily all smiling and waving and not the least bit hurt by their parents divorce.

He must be really tired if he was musing about his failed marriage.

Twenty minutes later when he was so deeply exhausted and depressed he was ready to curl up in a ball on the couch there was a knock at the front door and then a haggard looking Ron Weasley came in still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Harry had called him as soon as they’d realized Ginny wouldn’t need to be hospitalized and they’d agreed to take shifts watching her. Ron had offered to take the later shift which Harry gladly accepted as it meant he wouldn’t have to deal with getting a cranky Lily dressed in the morning.

“Hey,” Ron whispered, “she asleep?”

“They’re both out. They gave Ginny some potions and told her no apparating for the next two days.”

“Can she floo?”

Harry smiled, “that was her first question too.”

“Come on Harry. The woman’s a Weasley through and through. You can no more coop us up then reign in the moon.”

“Yeah I remember. A few months with you in a tent Ron. A misery I’ll take with me to the grave.”

Ron laughed, “To be fair I also had a gimpy arm and a Horcrux around my neck and Hermione kept making moon eyes at you when she wasn’t fussing over my shoulder.”

“She did not make moon eyes.”

“You were probably too busy staring at the Marauders’ Map to notice, but mate, trust me, moon eyes.”

The idea that Hermione could have had anything beyond fraternal feelings for him all those years ago confused Harry. As a teen he’d loved Hermione for her constance. She was logical, emotional, caring and had a crush on Ron so big you could see it from space. He’d never considered her anything more than a sister since he’d notice the way she flushed when she argued with Ron their third year. 

And the two of them, hopelessly in love with Weasleys, made it easy to get along. It was a commonality they shared.

Harry must have been mulling over a relationship that had gone to weeds fifteen years earlier too long because Ron was smiling like the biggest ponce on the planet. “Thinking about Hermione?”

“Sure,” Harry said. Ron immediately deflated.

“Really.”

“She was at the game tonight. Offered to take Lily to school in the morning.”

“You’re joking.” Yikes. Ron didn’t like that at all. Well good.

“Nope. You can tell her all about the moon eyes she made at me. I’m sure she’ll love to hear about it.”

Harry scooped up his jacket and headed for the door, but Ron called after him, “Who invited her to the game?”

He was trying not to sound eager but they’d been friends for more then twenty years and his curiosity was blatant.

“Jealous,” Harry teased.

Ron gave him one of his ‘I’m serious but not mad’ faces, and Harry, being a good friend, acquiesced. 

“Lily and her son, Hugo, are in class together. She invited them.”

“It was her and Hugo?”

“And Rose who I’m pretty sure hates me.”

“It’s the hair. You’ve got entirely too much hair for a man your age. And the way it kind of sticks up in the front. You look about twenty.”

“Think about my hair a lot do you Ron?”

“No,” he groaned, “but Maggie and Mum keep mentioning it. They both want you to get a haircut.”

Of course they did. If there hadn’t been whole biographies on him before he was twenty Harry would have been a little disturbed by three people discussing his hair so avidly behind his back.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Call me if anything changes?”

Ron waved goodbye and with a pop Harry was back in his own flat.

During the divorce they’d decided that Ginny would stay in the house and Harry would get a new place. It had been out of necessity for the kids. Aurors kept insane hours and Harry would have needed a Time Turner to get the kids off to elementary school each day. So Ginny took them to school and Harry picked them up.

Four years later and he still spent most of his time at the house rather than his flat, which accounted for the musty smell, empty kitchen and unmade bed. Harry’s was a bachelor’s place. All it lacked were some Bachelor Bakes and a sour smell in the bathroom.  The fastidiously clean bathroom, though, that was a holdover from his days as the cook and cleaner at the Dursley’s home.

Exhausted and eager for a few hours of sleep Harry grabbed the bottom of his jumper and pulled it up over his head. He started to take off his trousers when a dry voice called out. “Looks as though I’m about to see all of Harry Potter.”

He spun around—his wand instantly in his hands—and pointed towards the shadows. With his free hand he yanked his trousers up and buttoned them.

“All right. Out. Now,” he growled.

There was a whisper and the tip of the person’s wand lit up bathing the room in the cool light of the Lumnos spell. It was the dark man. He wore a great black cloak with a heavy hood that hung over his face. There was some sort of enchantment on the cloak that kept the man’s face hidden even in the glow of his wand.

He was wearing the same clothes as the other night as well. Tight trousers and a coat that fell to mid hips and came all the way up his throat. All the skin on him was hidden, even his hands were gloved and the boots he wore came up to the knees. He was all in black except the buckles on his belt and boots and the fastenings on his coat and cloak. 

He stood up from where he’d been sitting in the dark and Harry noted that he was only Harry’s height despite cutting such an imposing figure. He didn’t tower over Harry he only seemed to in Harry’s mind. Another charm. 

Ron’s first instinct, in Harry’s situation, would have been to duel the bastard and hoped he was better. But Harry only kept his wand ready. The man had been waiting for Harry and could have killed him as soon as he’d apparated. But he’d kept still instead, waited, and teased.

“I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

His voice was queer. Mechanical and inhuman but there was a wit about it. Yet another charm. The man was so festooned in them he’d likely melt away if ever he found himself beneath Liar’s Fall.

“We didn’t finish our chat the other day.”

“What would we have talked about? Finnegus Moore? Augustus Rookwood?”

“The Three Wise Men. Your employers correct?”

The light in the man’s wand went out, casting the room in shadows once more. Harry tensed up and fell into a dueling pose. Waiting.

“Asking about the Three Wise Men will get you killed,” he whispered from the darkness.

“They’re criminals right? A great criminal conspiracy. And you’re their errand boy. Or are you one of them?”

“What I tell you is for your own safety Pot—Auror; leave this be. Go back to your Death Eaters and dark wizards. The men you seek will only bring you misery.”

The dark man had slipped. Nearly called him Potter. Like a Slytherin might have. There was even a tone of contempt in the dry voice when he spoke.

“You’re not the first to warn me off this today.” 

The dark man had moved to a wall of photos Harry had of him and the kids. A few were older though. From Hogwarts. Of him and Ron and Hermione. Before Cedric died in front of him and Voldemort turned the world against him. The dark man plucked one off the wall and held it closer. Harry adjusted his aim, a curse on his lips.

“Dean Thomas is right about this. You should listen to him.” The dark man looked up and Harry thought he saw a glint of human eyes looking back. “But you won’t. Not Harry Potter. The boy who lived.”

“A moniker from another age.”

The dark man seemed to drop the photo, but it hung in the air a moment before returning to its place on the wall. “And if you pursue them? Me? It will be a moniker you want to hold true.”

Harry didn’t liked to be threatened, especially in his own home. The curse that exploded from the tip of his wand was pure instinct. The dark man was fast. His own wand drawn and blocking the curse with nary a word. He shot back one of his own. A Stupefy by the feel of it against Harry’s shield. They both fired off spell after spell. The room flashing brightly with each bit of magic. They were quiet. In a real fight you were always quiet. Better to cast wordlessly then give yourself away.

Harry threw a powerful curse that usually sent it’s victims into seizures, but his own couch leapt into the air to block it. The cushions quivered with the force of it before the entire piece exploded in a burst of fabric and stuffing. The dark man darted forward into the rain of debris that had been Harry’s couch. His spells came faster and it put Harry on the defensive.

Until Harry Accio’d his old broom right into the other man’s back. He grunted and fell to one knee. Harry moved forward—Stupefy after Stupefy spitting out of his wand in a blaze of red light. The man blocked each spell then suddenly vanished. Harry spun in place just in time to block a Petrificus Totalus. It shattered the shield he’d thrown up in a flash of light, and when the brightness receded the dark man was gone.

 

#

Little Bonnie Salander, the baby of the Auror department, was naturally the first on the scene. Despite the late hour she was bright eyed and perfectly dressed. The witches and wizards who followed were decidedly more bedraggled. Most stifled yawns and then looked away abashed when they caught Harry glaring at them.

Like they had any right to yawn. It wasn’t their flat turned into a crime scene. They didn’t have to deal with their staff traipsing through the place with wands alight, taking stock of the empty pantry and the dirty clothes under the bed. At least they couldn’t judge the mess that was his couch. 

Salander was the junior witch there, but as she arrived first and Harry was tired he left her to manage the crime scene. He made her clear his bathroom first then took a shower. He wasn’t especially dirty, but he didn’t have any tea in his kitchen and was in desperate need of a pick me up.

So he took a cold shower, because a warm shower often made him sleepy and he was already having trouble keeping his eyes open.

“Sir,” Salander asked timidly from the bedroom door.

Harry was out of the shower and sitting on his bed lacing his boots and being annoyed by the bit of water trickling down the back of his neck. 

“How bad is it Salander?”

Apparently the bare chests of thirtysomething Aurors were abhorrent to the girl because she kept looking anywhere but in Harry’s direction. “They went through every protection you had around the place sir. Found remnants of your spells all over.”

“I had a couple of spells on this place that should have taken months to break. How’d he do it in one night?”

“I don’t know sir. But we’ve gathered samples and are taking them back to the Ministry for study.” She was staring at the floor and twiddling her wand in her hands like a timid school girl. “And,” she offered then she looked over her shoulder and chewed the inside of her cheek.

“And what Salander? It’s nearly dawn and I still haven’t slept.” 

She was chastened by his vexed tone. Chastened enough to turn as red as a Stupefy. “The Unspeakables are here sir. One of them wants to speak with you.”

She looked over her shoulder again. Well at least now he knew what made her so nervous. He didn’t have to look past her to know that Dean was probably standing there.

He sat back down heavily onto the bed. “Send him in.”

Salander looked like she wanted to salute or click her heels together or something but she just nodded and scurried away.

And sure enough Dean Thomas soon appeared in the doorway looking forty kinds of angry and not the least bit sleepy. He shut the door behind himself and shot a Muffliato at the door. “I thought I told you to drop it Harry. I thought I told you what could happen. To you. To any of us if you pursued this. And then I get a call in the middle of the night telling me you haven’t let it go. Telling me you bloody dueled the bastard—“

“In my flat where he was waiting for me. So you can take that self righteous bit and shove it up you arse Dean.” Dean’s mouth popped open like one of those little Russian nesting dolls. “I’m sorry mate, I haven’t…I haven’t slept since before Ginny took a header off her broom and I’m a bit worn out.”

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck and had the courtesy to at least look a little abashed at his own outburst. “Yeah I probably burst in here a little strongly too.”

“You understand though, this man threatened me. Came into my home. Popped through my wards like they were tissue. I’m the head Auror Dean. I can’t let that pass.”

“And I can’t protect you. You’re on your own Harry.”

He smiled and behind Dean the mirror on the bedroom door reflected back that smile. It was dark and nasty and mean. “I normally am.”


	14. On The Subject Of Masturbation And Memory Charms

Ginny had been having a rather delightful dream involving a set of twins she’d met on holiday the year before when a scream pulled her from sleep. She woke up with her hand still a little busy and her brother Ron looking so pale she half thought Voldemort had risen from the grave and was in the room.

Then she realized what her hand was doing. And that her brother was in the room. They stared at each other. Their eyes wide. Finally, “Ron if you’re just going to keep staring I’m never going finish.”

Well that did it. He actually **fainted**. Right there! In the room. If she’d had any idea where her wand was she would have caught him but as it was she just had to watch her brother hit the floor like a big ol’ lumpy sack of potatoes.

It kind of ruined the mood. So she went and took a shower (a little more chilled then usual), poked at the giant bump on the back of her head and got dressed. By the time she got out of the bathroom the lumpy sack of potatoes had moved. 

She found him downstairs with a book of memory charms in his lap.

“Oh now you’re just being a baby,” she remarked.

“I’ve seen it Ginny. I can’t—I can’t unsee it.” He turned to look at her, blushed and turned back to the book. His jaw was all set like it did when he’d made a decision and wasn’t about to change it. “I think the Obliviate might be a bit much and I don’t trust you not to bungle it. But there’s a ten minute memory charm in here that should do the trick.”

“Because you really want a woman with a bruised brain working delicate memory charms on you.”

“I saw things,” he said in a harsh whisper. He’d gotten to where he could look at her, but only from the sides and only at her shoes. “It’ll only take a moment.”

She sighed and flopped down on the couch next to him. Thankfully he didn’t go running and screaming, but he did clutch his book of charms a bit tighter. “And if it goes tits up and bounces back on me? I rather like knowing who I am.”

Ron waved his hand, “I saw the stuff they gave you. Two of them make you immune to memory charms for up to a week.”

“Yeah, but I’m not allowed to apparate or transfigure. I’d hazard a guess that memory charms on other people are out of the question as well.” She put a hand on his shoulder and looked at him as seriously as she could under the circumstances, “So you’re just going to have to get over the fact that you caught me tickling the tulips.”

He turned red again and then started making the wonky face he made when he was about to throw up. He threw the book at her and stood up.

“You’re a terrible person Ginny Weasley.”

She put her hands in her lap like a proper little witch and said politely, “It’s perfectly natural. Mum said so.”

That had him clutching his head like his head like he was in pain and groaning loudly.

“You’re being a baby!”

“Wanton woman,” he cried.

She grinned. “Wanton Weasley,” she shot back.

He groaned again and headed for the door.

“Where’re you going,” she called after him.

“Work! And I got Lily off to school this morning thank you very much.”

Her “thanks” came out around the same time he slammed the door shut.

Alone and suffering a monstrous headache Ginny leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. Only she’d slept more than eight hours already and wasn’t the least bit tired. She tried listening to a bit of wireless and messing around in the kitchen but her body got tired quickly and she had to sit back down. Then she had a go at reading but her eyes kept crossing and her brain seemed to throb in her skull. 

That’s when she noticed her car keys dangling on the hook in this kitchen. The healer had told her no heavy duty magic and no apparating but he hadn’t said a thing about operating a motor vehicle.

#

She was being awfully nosy and she knew it. Ron would balk at it if he’d known what she was doing. But Ginny was bored and from a family of meddlers. It was in her blood to matchmake and fiddle with relationships.

So when she got in her car and tried to figure out where to go she’d settled on Hermione’s new office. It was easy enough to find once she used the little screen thing Harry had put in her car. It was like the Marauder’s Map, only for the whole of London. He and her dad had put it together after she’d told them she was going to get her own car.

In her father’s jolly voice it told her when to turn left and when to turn right and when to stop. Finally it brought her to a seedy looking warehouse on a tributary of the Thames.

Well, Hermione’s business venture certainly didn’t believe in wasting money. The warehouse looked to be half rusted out and the ones all around it actually looked to be in worse condition.

Big doors that seemed to take up most of the walls had been thrown open and she could see clear through to the other side and to the river beyond. She got out, locked her car door and threw up an anti-theft hex just for good measure.

Inside the warehouse looked a little nicer. Most of the floor was taken up with giant crates and owls swooped in from the open doors on the river side and nested in what looked like a rookery on stilts up above. There was an office up there too, but its shades were closed. A few men and women tutted around the building, but none of them seem to notice her.

Until a gorgeous brunette with skin like caramel spied her. They shared a brief look before the other woman grinned and jogged up to her. “Can I help you,” she asked.

It took Ginny a moment to place the woman’s funny sounding accent, “You’re South African,” she said in surprise.

“And you sound positively British. Now how’d you get in here?”

She waved to the giant door that was still open, “I walked?”

The brunette’s smile grew broader. She had nice teeth and a petite little nose and warm eyes, “As you can see the way back out is free and clear.”

“You’d like me to avail myself of the door?”

She nodded. “I would.”

Ginny shifted and put up her best pout. It was a great pout. It’d gotten her out of more than one ticket and into more that one bed. Once upon a time it had drove Harry into all kinds of delicious frenzies. Until the whole thing with the French ambassador. He’d found it rather awful after that.

The brunette just kept smiling and—did she just lick her lips? She did! Ginny moved in a little closer. “But I came **all** this way.” She thought about reaching out and touching the woman, but that might make it seem like she was coming on too strongly.

Or, more likely, that’d be when Hermione would come around a corner.

“Any particular reason,” the brunette asked. She’d crossed her arms over her chest like a bouncer. Only she was skinny and bundled up in a worn looking brown leather jacket and purple scarf. So it came off more like a fetching pose.

Ginny smiled. “My friend works here I think? Hermione Granger?”

The brunette’s smile faltered, but only briefly. “You mean Thomas? Mrs. Thomas is my boss and she would have mentioned you—“

“If I’d told her I was coming. I wanted to surprise her.”

The brunette seemed to be growing more frigid with each moment. “Why,” she asked suspiciously. Her dark eyes narrowed.

Ginny sighed, “Right I guess I should introduce myself. Ginny Weasley.” She held out her hand to shake the other woman’s, “old friend.”

The other woman took the offered hand, “Sarah Ratters. New friend.”

She had a firm grip and a calloused palm, but her hand was warm in Ginny’s own. “Does this mean we’ll have to fight,” Ginny asked, “to be Hermione’s besty.”

“Oh naturally. A duel at dawn.”

“I much prefer a good wrestling match.”

Sarah blushed and her caramel skin took on a strawberry tone. She looked like she was about to stutter something out when the woman herself rounded a corner and saw them. 

Hermione had her hair pulled back and was wearing jeans with knee high boots and a blazer. She looked fit. Professional. Attractive. Positively straight. And confused.

“Ginny. How’d you get here?”

“I drove?”

“You’ve got a concussion.”

She shrugged, “I’m on potions. They just said I couldn’t apparate. Nothing about cars.”

That comment seemed to particularly pain Hermione because her brow furrowed and she sighed loudly and rubbed at her head. “Come on upstairs,” she finally said, still rubbing at her head and not looking at Ginny. She spun around and headed for the office up on stilts.

Ginny waved goodbye to the lovely Sarah Ratters and followed.

Upstairs Hermione had carved out a rather nice little office. It was free of dust and brightly lit. The windows facing into the warehouse were shuttered but the ones facing the river weren’t and it afforded them a dreary view of the Thames and bleak grey sky.

“Nice view.”

Hermione moved around a giant desk and sorted through big stack of parchment. “I expect it will be come spring,” she said without looking up from her search.

“And the place is nice too.”

Hermione did look up at that, “Sarah managed to pick the seediest, cheapest warehouse possible.”

“But at least she’s pretty.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, “Yes she’s quite good looking. If I were you I’d totally go for that.”

Ginny grinned. “Does that mean I have your permission?”

“No. It means stay far, far away from my employees. I remember your fifth year. Practically destroyed the sixth year boy’s dorm room with drama.”

“That was when we were kids. I’m an adult now and I’ve gotten very good at compartmentalizing my romantic engagements.” She went and sat on the edge of Hermione’s desk. “You won’t even know we’re seeing each other.”

Hermione leveled her with a glare.

“Yikes. It’s like you're spiritually channeling McGonagall **and** my mom.”

“I’ll do more than channel them if you try dating Sarah.”

Ginny nodded, “Fair enough, but that means I can ban you from dating someone too.”

She actually looked bewildered at that. She started to protest but Ginny quickly continued, “I saw you last night with my ex-husband.”

“Ginny. Harry and I are—“

“Friends. Believe me. I’ve heard that one before. And so has Harry.”

“No really. We are.”

“I know what happened Hermione. Before you disappeared from our wedding?”

Hermione, who didn’t get emotionally rattled often, especially when it concerned matters of romance, blushed. From the top of her head to some point well past her collar she turned bright red, and she opened her mouth, maybe to apologize or rationalize it, but Ginny waved her hand. She did’t want to hear it. Any of it. 

She’d long ago forgiven Hermione for the things she’d told Harry hours before he married Ginny. Forgiven her for the things she’d done. She had to, what with being an adulteress herself and all. It would be positively hypocritical for her to judge Hermione.

“Does Ron—“ Hermione finally squeaked out.

“No.” Harry had wanted to tell him. He’d felt guilty and assured Ginny it was the right thing. But she remembered how Ron had pined after Hermione and she’d remembered how jealous he got any time Hermione had looked affectionately at Harry. To know the woman he’d loved had left him and then snuck into a tent to kiss Harry would have undone him, and might very well have destroyed his relationship with Harry.

Hermione was looking down at the scrolls on her desk. Thumbing through them without actually reading any of them. “It was an accident,” she said softly. “I was…I wasn’t in a good place and he was…” She looked back up at Ginny in utter seriousness, “I’m sorry.”

Ginny shrugged, “It’s fine Hermione.”

“Is it?”

“Well, it wasn’t. But it is now. Though I haven’t a clue how we’ll break it to the kids if he starts dating you.”

“That won’t happen.”

It took Ginny a moment to realize Hermione was talking about dating Harry. “You’re not going to ask Harry out?”

Hermione sighed and leaned back in her chair. She was staring at some abstract point overhead. Her brown eyes were distant and dull. “My husband died three months ago. Right now I’m trying to figure out how to move day to day. How to survive? And I’ve got kids who miss their dad and are stuck in a whole other country. I don’t have the time or the energy to try a relationship. Especially one with as much baggage as what’s between Harry and I.”

Ginny had only seen the kids from afar, only heard of them and their father from Ron and Harry and Hermione. To her they were a concept more than people. So she had to think of her own children and think of a time when she and Harry were happily married and each other’s world.

It was a stretch and had her going back further than she’d like. But if she considered it long enough she could see where Hermione stood and she could understand the overwhelming loneliness and grief.

She decided right then and there that her great plan to put the two together would have to go on hold indefinitely. She didn’t know Rose and Hugo but she knew it wouldn’t be fair to them to have a new dad and siblings foisted upon them.

Hermione had returned her focus to Ginny and watched her warily. 

“All right, stand up woman.” She didn’t actually wait for Hermione to stand up. It was much easier to just reach down and yank her up. Hermione had a few inches on Ginny, but she was slim and sleek where Ginny was solid. Hermione sort of did something between a screech and a yelp and fell into Ginny’s arms.

It was just a platonic friendly hug. Nothing as salacious as the hugs she usually gave to women she wasn’t related to. Hermione sighed and gripped Ginny tighter.

“Hermione,” she said against the taller woman’s shoulder, “this hug is fantastic, but I think I’d rather have my arms around young Ms. Ratters.”

Hermione squeezed her tight, “you do and I’ll have my hands around you ne—“

And then the door burst open and the aforementioned Ms. Ratters rushed in all breathless and breathtaking. And she stared. And stared. Hermione made no indication that she wanted out of the hug that would soon be lasting an almost inappropriate amount of time. 

“Um, ma’am?”

And the spell was broken. Hermione pulled back and asked, “What is it Sarah?”

Sarah waved her hand, “Don’t stop on my account. That hug gave me about forty different mental images I’m going to need to rifle through when I’m alone.”

“Who says you need to be alone,” Ginny quipped.

Hermione’s hand lashed out and caught Ginny in the stomach. “Any other reason you came bursting in?”

Sarah looked from Hermione to Ginny then pressed on. “We’ve got a problem with our” she glanced back at Ginny and seemed to edit whatever she’d meant to say, “sources here.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed and Ginny got an overwhelming urge to hide from the cleverest witch of their age.

“What kind of problem,” she asked.

“Big.”

“Ginny, will you excuse us?”

Ginny actually wanted to stay and find out what a business associate could do to get Hermione so angry but it would have been rude to stay so she gave Hermione a farewell hug, winked at Sarah Ratters and left the office.

She was nearly to her car when a meaty looking wizard ran up out of breath. “Ms. Weasley right? Mrs. Thomas wanted me to give you a ride home.”

“Why on earth would—“

“She said you had a concussion and shouldn’t be driving.”

“I drove here”

He shrugged his thick shoulders, “She told me to drive you ma’am. And when Mrs. Thomas gives me an order I like to follow it. It’s kind of my job.”

She didn’t especially want this American meathead driving her car, but she also didn’t want Hermione showing up on her doorstep with that freakishly scary look she’d had in her office. 

“You can drive, but that means you have to go with me this afternoon to pick up the kids.”

He nodded. “Meeting the kids of the Holyhead Harpies’s best chaser in forty years? It’d be an honor.”

“You’re a fan?”

He blushed, “I had a picture of you on my wall all through high school.”

All through high—there would be retribution. She wasn’t sure when or how, but she’d see that Hermione suffered for giving her a fanboy chaperone.

Oh she would suffer.


	15. That Was My Favorite Couch

The day started off poorly enough, what with Harry not getting any sleep and having to eat breakfast at a table that overlooked the ruins of his living room. It was worse when he got to work and had to sit through a meeting with the Minister of Magic and his boss at the DLME. Apparently the _Daily Prophet_ had gotten wind of the attack and witches and wizards of all sorts wore worrying about their golden child. Even though Harry was well past the age where calling him a “child” was appropriate.

Shacklebolt, being a former Auror himself, wasn’t too worried about Harry. “Calm down Richley,” he said, his deep voice booming against the dark green tiled walls, “Harry’s faced worse.”

Richley was Harry’s direct superior and the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. In his youth he’d been one of the hit wizards charged with tracking down  Sirius. During the second War he’d been undercover in a dark wizard ring. He was now a pale whisp of a man who liked to tap the tip of his wand against his lips. Sometimes he chewed on it. He wasn’t outright nervous. He never stuttered and his eyes were calm and stalwart. To the average wizard or witch he no doubt looked the part of the head of the DMLE, but Harry always thought he gave off a nervous energy.

“This man attacked our Head Auror in his home. I don’t care how fine Harry is. This looks bad. We have to find this man before people start worrying.”

Harry sort of agreed with Richley, but not because he wanted to save face for the department or wreak unbridled vengeance. He was more concerned about this man sneaking into Ginny’s home and looming over Lily, or finding his way to Ron and Maggie and the twins. Or even Hermione.

After agreeing to put more resources into the investigation, that had previously just amounted to Ron and himself, and further agreeing to use the Hit Wizards as needed, Harry was finally let out of his meeting.

The Hit Wizard bit kept him irritated all the way back to his office, where he found Ron sitting at his desk furiously working.

“How’s Ginny,” he asked.

Ron looked up, blushed redder than his hair and gave Harry the two finger salute. Before Harry could respond Salander bound up with worse news. Every bit of evidence gathered at Harry’s flat was inconclusive. Every. Single. Bit.

Ron must have noticed Harry’s irritation because he set his quill down and asked, “How’d the date with our Dark Wizard go?”

Harry hoped the look he gave his best friend was as venomous as the one Ron had given him moments earlier. “He smashed my couch.”

“Which couch?”

“My leather one.”

“You mean **my** leather couch. I loaned that couch to you with the understanding that no harm would come to it.”

Harry shrugged and leaned back, riling up Ron was making all his own frustrations ebb away, “You’ll have to take it up with the dark wizard.”

“That’s my bachelor couch. It was supposed to bring you luck with women and guide you into a nice and normal and healthy adult relationship.”

“I’ve done nice and normal and healthy.”

“Mistress Frigger doesn’t count.” Harry really didn’t want to think about any of the implications of that nickname. Ron didn’t either apparently. He turned bright red again. “That couch was a fresh start Harry.”

“To be fair. It was your old couch from the place you had with Hermione. That dark wizard probably did the whole of a UK a favor when he smashed it to splinters.”

“Touche Mr. Potter.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Of course Mr. Potter.”

“If you don’t stop it I’ll make **you** coordinate with the hit wizards.”

The self-satisfied grin that had been smeared across Ron’s face since he’d started in with the ‘Mr. Potters’ went away rather easily at that. 

“Why on earth are we working with the bludgers?”

No one was entirely sure where that nickname had come from, but once upon a time a Quidditch fan had taken to calling the hit wizards bludgers and the Aurors chasers. It wasn’t the kind of nickname bandied about in public. The hit wizards especially hated their sobriquet. Naturally Ron used the name at every available opportunity.

“Came straight from Richley. This dark wizard is our new Voldemort.”

“Only he hasn’t got a name and probably has a nose.”

“I wouldn’t know. He’s got forty kinds of enchantment on that cloak he wears.”

Ron grinned, “Maybe one’s a genderbending charm. Our dark wizard is really a dark witch.”

“Why on earth would she hide her sex?”

The red head shrugged, “Dark witches I can name on one hand.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Two if you give me some time to research.”

Harry gathered together the most recent information and shoved it into a file. “I honestly wonder how you passed your O.W.L.S.”

“Does this mean I can skip your meeting with the bludgers?”

“I’m pretty sure you’d lower the IQ of the whole department just by walking in.”

He left Ron to search for the muggle term “IQ” and headed upstairs to the Hit Wizard department. Their offices were on the ground floor of the Ministry, directly across from the entrances. They took up more room than the rest of the DMLE combined but their offices also contained the department’s armory and training areas.

Despite the name, being a Hit Wizard wasn’t a brutish job. Or an easy one. Aurors hunted the dark forces of magic, and frequently did so alone, but it was the Hit Wizards who were regularly called into action. Only a week before they’d been called to handle a hostage crisis in Hogsmeade. Some potion peddler had sampled their wares one too many times and gone off the deep end, threatening an entire tavern with a firestorm.

The brute guarding the office’s entrance didn’t do much to help their reputation. He was bald, twice Harry’s size, and had a scar that ran from is ear all the way to his chin. He sneered at Harry and allowed him to pass.

Inside other Hit Witches and Wizards noticed him. Some nodded, a few waved, but most continued with their work like he wasn’t even there.

He stopped by the head Hit Witch’s office but found her absent. Which was normal. Padma Patil was practically obsessive with training. Her staff were some of the best trained duelers to ever pick up a wand and their reputation had become so lauded that Harry had actually lost an Auror to her ranks the year before.

He found the irksome woman in the main dueling arena taking on six new recruits.

He watched the duel, which was really more of a bloodless slaughter, and nodded when she took a moment to breathe. She grinned that cheeky grin she’d been using ever since they’d had a drunken fumble at a Christmas party in Hogsmeade.

“The Head Auror’s come all the way down here. Looking for a workout Harry?”

“Just speaking with you is taxing enough Padma.”

She laughed and caught a towel sailing towards her head. She used it to wipe away the copious amounts of sweat pouring off of her.

Harry took a step back. “Shouldn’t they be the ones working up a sweat?”

She followed his gaze. The six wizards she’d fought were taking a break from dueling and having a chat. “They’ve got their own routines Harry.”

“Just using them for yours?”

“Naturally,” she motioned for him to follow her to her office.

“Heard you got a visit last night.”

“He shredded my couch and half my protection charms.”

She winced, “Any idea who he is?”

“Not yet, but Richley insisted that I get you involved.”

Inside her office it was pristine and modern. Everything was white and marbled and utterly unlike all the dark woods and tiles that made up the rest of the ministry. The only hint of color was a collection of wands she’d had mounted and hung above her desk.

She tossed her used towel into a chute that sucked it away and flopped down into her shiny white desk chair. “Tea,” she asked. He nodded. She waved her wand and the tea tray in the corner of the office rolled towards them. 

“I don’t want to step on any toes,” she said, carefully pouring cream into his cup, “I know how you Aurors like to catch the dark wizards.”

“Apparently Richely wants me staying alive long enough to do the catching.”

“And that’s where I come in?”

“A little additional protection would be nice.”

She pulled a quill out of her desk drawer and began to write in a scroll. The words seemed to disappear as soon as the quill left the page. Then he noticed that they were actually appearing on the blank wall next to her desk.

“That’s new.”

“It’s wonderful for coordinating operations. Designed it myself.”

“Always clever.”

She winked, “I’m the smart one.”

“How is Parvati?”

“Still writing for _Witches Weekly_ and ready to hunt down Granger for a story.”

That would go over well. “So she’s heard she’s back?”

Padma nodded, “The whole of the Wizarding world seems to know she’s back. How many hit wizards should you need?”

Padma had always had an almost unnerving focus and a talent for multitasking that rivaled Hermione’s. “I’d like some watching Ginny and Lily.” She nodded agin and wrote more. He watched the numbers crawl across the wall. “I don’t think they’ll need six. Ginny’s fast with a wand.”

“And I hear she got knocked clear off her broom last night and broke her skull.”

Fair enough. She continued writing. “Padma no one’s gone after Ron yet.”

She looked up again, “And with three hit wizards hovering over head no one will.”

“You don’t think you’re taking it a little too far?”

She set her quill down. “Harry, you hunt dark wizards. It’s what you do. I protect witches and wizards day in and out. It’s what I do. It’s my men you see guarding the Minister. Not any Auror. So trust me to keep you safe.”

 

#

After work Harry elected to ignore returning home to the ruins of his apartment. Instead he went to Ginny’s. Only when he knocked on the door a ruddy faced man with a buzz cut and a powerful looking wand answered.

Neither quite expected to see the other so both settled for staring.

“Tyler who is it,” he heard Ginny ask somewhere beyond the man’s broad looking shoulders.

“The ex-husband,” Harry said. He stuck his hand out in greeting. 

The man took it suspiciously. “Harry Potter,” he asked.

“Got the scar and everything.”

“You’re shorter than me.”

“As is most of the planet I imagine.”

“And you sound so British.”

Tyler was himself an American. Harry’s knowledge of accents was woefully underwhelming but he sounded vaguely Southern. Not at all like Hermione’s children who both sounded like Americans from the movies.

“Who are you exactly?”

Ginny shouted again from within, “Would you let him in and shut the door? I can feel the draft from here!”

Tyler the American stepped aside and followed Harry into the living room. “Mrs. Thomas asked me to escort Ms. Weasely home.”

Harry paused, “Mrs. Thomas?”

Ginny was laid out on the couch eating some cheese on toast and rolled her eyes at the question. “Hermione said I couldn’t drive because I had a concussion. Tyler here is my driver.”

“For how long?”

“Mrs. Thomas said I’m to assist Ms. Granger until she’s fit to operate motor vehicles again.”

“Shouldn’t you be…working?”

“My job is to do as Mrs. Thomas’s requests.”

Harry looked past the man to Ginny who raised an eyebrow. He looked back at the wall of Tyler. Ginny spoke up, “He’s like a personal assistant Harry only Hermione’s apparently got loads of them and could spare one for a few days.”

“Right.”

“Mrs. Thomas asked that we all become acclimated with the UK. She suggested that assisting Mrs. Weasely for the next few days would help me.”

“So it’s mutually beneficial Harry. Now come sit down. Tyler’s going to make us something called “hoe cakes.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” the man mountain said. He nodded to both of them and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ginny patted the seat next to her. “Sit down Harry. Take a load off.”

“Where’s Lily?”

“In the yard.”

“Hermione gave you a butler.”

She nodded, “And a driver.”

“Any particular reason she’s spoiling you?”

“Well she did see where I grew up. Sure it was cozy, but I reckon I’m due some spoiling Harry. Besides,” she tapped her head, “I’ve got a delicate head at the moment. She was just looking out for me.”

“It seems a bit much.”

“You’re just jealous **you** didn’t get a Tyler.”

“Does Ron know?”

She grinned, “Someone’s deflecting. Come on Harry. Admit it. You’re jealous.”

He rolled his eyes, “Yes I’m extraordinarily jealous of your relationship with Hermione. We spent months alone in a tent together but she gave you a butler so yours is clearly the better friendship.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow.

“What,” he asked.

“Oh nothing. That was just. I meant you were jealous of my butler, not my relationship with Hermione.”

“Ginny…”

“My turn to deflect,” she cheered, “now sit and tell me all about your meeting with some deep dark wizard.” She paused. “Was he attractive?”

“How do you even know about it?”

“Well Ron called to tell me you got his favorite couch smashed up and that I ought to buy him a new one with my Quidditch gold. Then Padma, being incredibly thoughtful, called to see if I had a preference for guards. Between the two of them I managed to suss things out.”

“I was kind of hoping that wouldn’t reach the civilian population.”

“And as long as Padma doesn’t tell her sister it won’t. But more importantly would you believe that woman refused to give me any hit witches. ‘Men only,’ she said.”

“You’ve met you Ginny.”

“Exactly! How am I ever suppose to appease the wounded woman nursed back to health fantasy or the bodyguard fantasy if my own friend won’t help me.”

“I would really prefer not to know.”

“But seriously Harry, are you all right?”

Ginny dropped her voice and octave and leaned across the couch to ask the question. For a mercurial woman like Ginny such genuine concern and exposure of actual emotion was a rarity.

He stared at her, noting the little crease in her brow and the way her lips pursed together.

And he groaned.

“Come on Ginny. The serious face?”

“What? I’m being serious!”

“Exactly. Here we are having a fantastic time waiting on hoe cakes or whatever Farmer Ted is cooking and you have to try to be all genuine with me?”

“It’s been a genuine sort of day Harry. And if you get killed I’ll have to stop paying alimony. Then the money saved will go straight into hookers and drugs and our poor children will be orphans.”

“I’m fine Ginny. He and I fought, he disappeared, and now all my loved ones and you are surrounded by hit wizards for the foreseeable future.”

“And you’re not scared?”

“Why would I be?”

“It’s got to be a scary wizard that would take on Harry Potter. I’d be scared.”

He slumped down into the overstuffed cushions and took his glasses off to give them a quick clean. “Honestly?”

Ginny nodded.

“I’m terrified for you all for. For Ron and Maggie. But the fight itself? It was exhilarating Ginny. I haven’t had a duel that challenging in years. And even though he’s some big bad dark wizard out to be the next Voldemort I felt…”

Harry had yet to voice that particular feeling. Saying it out loud, even to someone as impossibly understanding as Ginny, was a horrifying prospect.

Ginny reached out and took his hand. “You felt something you probably shouldn’t say out loud. It’s all right Harry. I feel the same way I’m in a match opposite an especially attractive woman.”

“I wasn’t _lustful_ ,” he insisted.

“Excitement. Lust. They’re cut from the same cloth. Just don’t let on to anyone.”

Tyler poked his head back in, “Ma’am? Where’s your corn meal and maple syrup?”

The former spouses looked at each other. Ginny then muttered, “Do you speak American? Because I have no idea what he just said.”


End file.
